

t 


' tf ' 

: 

••••♦ ^ • 
••; ■'■‘o’ /-Jteft ■'<./ : 


. 0 * ••iir# ^ 




♦ f\ ♦ . 


:- '^^oi 


• c 5 »^n 









'W V/' • ~0 Jl' 

& >**■ 0 * : ‘ 

4? ^ V aO^ 41^%^ 

♦Cilia* S9 ♦rffvsr^A.® c^ ♦cJiSi* 


"^OVS'5' 


'O • * 


iV 

♦ d.S 

* '^d. *0 

* ■^ ^ *' 

^cr ® ® ■ • # 4^'^ . V ' • ^ 


• * 




Aq. 


* ^ ftO *<'*i^^o* o 

..*•.% ••‘V’ ,.. 

:*^*. :M^' W raM'. 


• O 

♦ 4/ V^ • 



♦ ^ ♦ -igyr^A 

-*• aO ^ 4' 

^ V4.'*, 4^'^ 

’’bv^ : 


**’*\^^ ^%**'‘' 





^o#»* .Cr ^ *^!r*T* a'V *♦« < 

■.\ <‘° .•^. °-> . ./yi®i-.\. . o»'^ 


^•4 




i- -V5I^!» 


a • • 




• 

% \ 

• ^Eaw^av-* ^ ^ 


^ 4.^ ^ 



s'* 4 <tty cl* 0 ^ cJ 

»♦ ^ ♦Tv??* A <A aCt ’ 







■*■ *"’■ A .. ^ *• 



<y ♦•M* 

iV-^ *v5%^Sw* 


AX •*“*•# «4» 

.-«? tJEm^>* A <«, A 




K ■'^o' •'^BS* ;a|f]^ 

A e> qO 

• /%*•■ ^0^ .i::.;. 

K*. A **KvV>»;* .’^fe'. ■^. 




v^v V' 



%*♦•*’*' 

•i* <2* <1: 








« . ArAy. /'V 






























69 


/ 


50 Cents 

XoveU’5 lintcrnational Scries 


Out of Eden 


BY 

DORA RUSSELL 


Author of “A Bitter Birthright/’ “Jezebel’s Friends,” Etc. 


ATi’fF VOJ^K 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 Worth Street, corner Mission Place 

Kvfry work in this series is published by arrangement with the author". 


Issued Weekly. Annual Subscription, $30.00. June 30, 1891. 
Entered at New York Post Office as second-class matter. 


LOVELLS 


INTERNATIONAL SERIES 

OF 

MODERN NOVELS. 


The new works published in this excellent Series, Semi-Weekly, are always 
the first issued in this country. 

Every issue is printed from new, clear electrotype plates, on fine paper 
and bound in attractive paper covers of original design. 


Xo, 

40. 

47. 

48. 


40. 


50. 

51. 

52. 

5.3. 

54. 

55. 
50. 
57. 


.58. 

50. 


00 . 

01 . 

02 . 


03. 


fU. 

05. 

GO. 

07. 

08. 

00 . 


70. 

71. 


72. 

73. 

74. 


RECENT ISSUES. 


Cts. 

The Lament op Dives. Wal- 
ter Desaiit .30 

Mas. ]3 ok. John S. Winter. . 30 
Was Eveu Woman in this 
II uMuK Wooed. C. Gibbon. 30 
The Mvnn’s My.steuy. Geo. 

Alanvilie Fenn .30 

IIedri. Helen Mathers SO 

The IJoNDMAN. HallCuine.. 30 
A Gnu, OF THE People. L. T. 

Aleacle 30 

Twenty Novellettes. By 
Twenty Prominent Novelists 30 
A Fa.mily Without a Name. 

Jules Verne 30 

A Sydney Sovekeio.n. 

Tasnia 30 

A AIa TicH in the Kanks; .les- 

sie Fotbergill 30 

Ouu Eiuung Bhotuek. F. W. 

llobinsori ,30 

Misadventure. W.E. Norris 30 
Plain Tales from the Hills 

liudyard Kipling .50 

Dinna Forget. J. S. Winter 30 
Cosettk. K. 8. Macqnoid. . . 30 
Master of His Fate. J. Mac- 

liiren Cobban 30 

A Very Strange Family. F. 

W. Robinson .30 

The Kilburns. A. Thomas. 30 
The Firm of Giedlestone. 

A. Conan Doyle 50 

In Her Earliest Youth. 

Tasma 50 

The Lady Egeria. .1. D. 

Harwood .50 

A True Friend. A. Sergeant 50 
The Little C’iiatelaine. The 

Earl of Desart 50 

ClIILDliEN of 3'o-MoRROW. 

William Sharp 30 

The Haunted Fountain and 
Hetty’s Revenge. K. S. 

Macquoid i 30 

A Dai'iuiter’s Sacrifice. F. ’ 

C. Idiiliiisand P. Fendall... .50 

llAUNTiNfJS. Vernon T.ee .50 

A Smuggler’sSecret Barrett .50 


No. 

75. 


76. 

77. 

78. 


r* 

I 


9 . 


80. 


81. 

82. 


83. 

84. 


85. 

86 . 


87. 

88. 

89. 


90. 

91. 


92. 


93. 


94. 

05. 

96. 

97. 

98. 

99. 

100 . 
101 . 


102 . 

103. 


Cts. 


Kestell of Grey.stone. Es- 

me Stuart .50'' 

The Talking Image of Urur. 

Franz Hartmann, M.D ,50 

A ScA rlet Sin. F. M arry at . . 50 
By Order op the Czar. 

Joseph Hatton 50 

The Sin OP Joost Avelingh. 

Maarten M a arte ns 50 

A Born Coquette. “ The 

Duchess” .50 

The Burnt Million. J. Payii 50 
A Woman’s Heart. Mrs. 

Alexander,. 50 

Syrlin. Ouida .50 

The ItivAL Princess. Jn.siin 
ISIcCarthyand Mrs. C. Praed .50 

P)Lindfold. F Marryat 50 

The Parting op the Ways. 

M. Bethaai Edwards 50' 

The Failure of Elisabeth. 

E. Frances Poynter 50 

Fh.i’s Children! G. M. Fenn 50 


The Bishops’ Puble. Daviil 
C, Murray and H. Hermann .50 
April’s Lady, “’fhe Duchess” 50 
Violet Vyvian, M. F. II. May 


Ci’ommelin 50 

A Woman of the World. F. 

Mabel Kohl nson 50' 

The Baffled Conspirators. 

Wi E. Norris 50^ 

Strange Crimes. W! Wesrall 50 

Dishonored. 3'heo. Gift 50 

Thk Mystkry of M. Felix. 

B. L. Far jeon 50 

With Esskx in Irkland. 

lion. Emily Lawless 50 

Soldiers Threk and Otiikr 
Stories. Rudyard Ki]>liDg 50 


niak ami William Westall ,50 

The House on the Scar. 

Bertha 'riiomas 50 ' 

The W/GEs OF Sin. 1.. Malet 50 
Ihe Phantom ’Rickshaw. 
Rudyard Kipling 501 


OUT OF EDEN 






ifwwiLf^ \i' • • 
rATv/ter^:^ 


'■l;:^*?^.- sccLu ... . ^.v 


*!tJ. .tv*.l>> ^^5 


■ '* ' i' 


1^:* y*:.yv- --r * ' '■' ^'"'.'Ov-' * •- ■ r»«^.vv fi 

*«• ' ’ 4 ‘iir.^v • '.‘S'- f-' .'-■ , 1H ■' ■ ■ '■ ^ 

i$: iVwH3l¥/-'A •■'V./'.. ^ i'; ;:t- , ■‘'.-y » »■-•■ " 





OUT OF EDEN 


DORA RUSSELL 

u 

AUTHOR OF 

“a fatal past,” “jezebel’s friends,” etc. 


.it- 


NOV 8 1391 




NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 




Copyright, i8gi, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. 


All Rights Reserved. 



OUT OF EDEN. 



CHAPTER I. 

A LAST REQUEST. 

j|NE common infirmity of we poor mortals, who are the 
heirs of so many infirmities, is that we have a certain 
grim pleasure in telling ill news. Thus as the grey 
mists lifted and vanished over the purple hills that sur- 
rounded and sheltered a Cumbrian homestead near Weirmere, the 
young surgeon who rode out of the valley early one morning in 
September, felt inwardly impelled to turn out of his way for the 
seemingly melancholy purpose of being the first bearer of evil 
tidings. 

This strange feeling of humanity made him ride an extra mile ; 
made him approach a gateway he had never presumed to approach 
before — the gateway of Lady Blunt — who lived in the great house 
which stood on the green hill above the placid lake of Weirmere ; 
and who if she knew this young surgeon by sight certainly had not 
deigned to give any outward indication of doing so. Yet armed by 
the awful nature of his news, by the knowledge that he was about 
to give a grievous shock to one at least of its inhabitants, Mr 
Joseph Thirl well, assistant to Dr Humphrey, the well-known 
doctor of the neighbourhood, rode up, pale and awed indeed, but 
still without the least necessity or reason for doing so, and rang 
the door-bell of Weirmere Hall, and asked in a mysterious whisper 
if he could ‘ see my lady 

The butler who had replied to his summons was too much as- 
tonished for a moment or two to answer him. A man of solemn 
port was this butler, big and burly, with a homely Scotch face, 
grown dignified and pompous of expression from the honours and 
emoluments of his position. He stared for a second or two at 
‘the doctor’s lad,’ as he mentally designated Mr Joseph Thirl well, 
before he spoke ; then hesitatingly he said, — 

‘ My lady is up, sir, certainly, but — ’ 





2 


Out of Eden, 

‘ I want to see her particularly, most particularly, Appleby,* 
urged Mr Thirl well, still in the same mysterious whisper. 

Appleby moved his large feet, cleared his throat, and looked 
curiously at the young doctor’s face, which under ordinary circum- 
stances was smiling, fresh-coloured, and cheerful. Just now it was 
pale, and his blue eyes had a certain look of excitement and con- 
centration in them which betrayed emotion. 

‘ If — it is anything very pressing, Mr Thirlwell,’ said Appleby 
dubiously ; ‘but you know my lady — is — well, rather particular.?’ 

‘ I know, old fellow,’ answered Mr Thirlwell. ‘ I wouldn’t ask to 
see her, you may be sure, if I hadn’t something to say — something 
awfuU And again the young surgeon’s voice sank. 

‘ Awful .?’ echoed the butler, yet more curiously. 

‘Yes, awful !’ repeated Mr Thirlwell. ‘ I ain’t chicken-hearted ; 
I can stand a good deal, but for all that I’ve lost my appetite for 
breakfast this morning, I can tell you, Appleby.* 

‘ My lady is at breakfast,’ said Appleby, as if musingly. 

‘ She won’t finish it, I can promise you, after she has heard my 
news,’ said young Thirlwell. ‘ Ask her to see me, Appleby. I 
will not keep her long.’ 

‘ Well, sir, if you’ll wait in the hall for a moment, or step into 
the dining-room, I’ll ask her. My lady is in the breakfast-room, 
and I do not generally disturb her ; but I’ll tell her you’re here, 
and have something particular to say.’ 

‘All right,’ said Mr Thirlwell, with a nod, and he turned round 
and began staring vaguely at the black-oak carvings that adorned 
the hall, though he was not thinking of these ancient and valuable 
works of art. 

In the meantime the butler, Appleby, had gone into the break- 
fast-room, and was telling Lady Blunt that ‘ Dr Humphrey’s young 
man ’ had called, ‘ and he says he wants particularly to see you, my 
lady,’ added the butler. 

‘What for.?’ asked Lady Blunt sharply, looking up from her 
plate. ‘ What can he want .? ’ 

‘ He won’t say, my lady,’ said Appleby, ‘ but — ’ 

‘ I can’t see him,’ continued Lady Blunt, yet more sharply, once 
more turning her attention to her breakfast. ‘He can leave a 
message.’ 

She had a frosty face. Lady Blunt, sour or bitter, and looked as 
if a dissatisfied and restless soul lived in that thin upright form, 
and peered out of those grey and gloomy eyes. She was not a 
young woman, and she was not handsome— had never been hand- 
some — and years had not given the dignity of repose to her harsh 
features. 

‘ I told him you were engaged, my lady,’ hesitated Appleby, ‘ but 
he made a very strange statement, or I would not have disturbed 
your ladyship for such as he ; but he said he had something awful 
—those were his very words — to tell your ladyship, so I thought it 
best to give his message.’ 

‘Awful?’ repeated Lady Blunt, again looking up. ‘What can 
he mean, Appleby .? ’ and her face flushed as she asked the ques- 


A Last Request, 3 

tion ; flushed so quickly that it betrayed a more emotional tempera- 
ment than her ordinary appearance indicated. 

‘I can’t think what he means, my lady,’ answered Appleby, 
‘but I think there’s something in it, for the young man has a scared- 
like look, and I don’t think he would have taken the liberty of ask- 
ing to see your ladyship unless he had something very particular 
to say.’ 

For a moment Lady Blunt did not speak ; she moved her hands 
nervously, and then, with a sort of effort, she said, — 

‘Well, I’ll see him ; you can bring him here.’ 

Appleby bowed and left the room to obey his lady’s orders, and 
Lady Blunt gave a restless sigh as her butler closed the door of 
the room. But a minute later her face resumed its usual cold 
expression, for she heard by their voices outside that Appleby and 
the young doctor were about to appear. 

She bowed, though she scarcely looked at Mr Thirlwell, as the 
butler brought him in. Young Thirlwell’s face by this time had 
flushed scarlet, and he stuttered and stammered when Appleby 
announced him, and stood there apparently unable to explain the 
reason for his intrusion. 

‘You wished to see me.?’ presently said Lady Blunt, in her some- 
what harsh voice, and she just glanced at Thirlwell as she spoke. 

‘ Yes — I — I — have some news — a most melancholy circumstance 
— unfortunately, to — to communicate to your ladyship,’ stammered 
Mr Thirlwell. 

‘Indeed!’ said Lady Blunt, now looking at him directly and 
quickly. ‘ What has happened ?’ 

‘ Poor Mr Chester ! ’ began the young surgeon, but he was 
stopped by a kind of cry which escaped from Lady Blunt’s now 
whitening lips. 

‘ What 1’ she cried, and she rose. 

‘ It’s a very sad thing,’ continued Thirlwell, whose tongue sud- 
denly became loosened, ‘but I thought your ladyship would like to 
hear — in fact, that your ladyship ought to hear of it at once. He 
shot himself, poor man, about seven this morning, and lingered for 
an hour, though it was a hopeless case from the first. Still his 
daughters, poor girls, have the consolation of thinking everything 
was done that could be done. Dr Humphrey was there a quarter 
of an hour after it happened, and I also was with him before he 
expired. But he never spoke— inward hemorrhage was the im- 
mediate cause of death, the bullet having lodged— but I am afraid 
I shock your ladyship ?’ 

The reason for this last remark was that the young surgeon had 
suddenly noticed the ghastly pallor which was fast spreading over 
Lady Blunt’s face. She stood there white and rigid, with a fixed 
look of horror in her eyes, and Thirlwell’s attention was attracted 
to her appearance by her raising her hand to her throat, and by 
her giving a sort of convulsive gasp. 

‘ I hope you do not feel ill?’ he said. ‘ Pray sit down,’ and he 
advanced as if to her assistance, but with a slight gesture Lady 
Blunt waved him back. 


4 Out of Eden, 

At this moment Appleby, the butler, who had retired from the 
room when he had ushered in the young doctor, but only as far as 
the outside of the door, which he had purposely left ajar at this 
moment then (he having heard every word that Thirlwell had said) 
Appleby re-entered the room, and hurried to the side of his lady. 

‘Oh ! my lady !’ he said, forgetting dignity and etiquette alike, 

‘ it’s a dreadful thing this — poor Mr Chester ! ’ 

‘Water!’ gasped Lady Blunt; and Appleby having procured 
some, she drank it, gasping still ; and then, in a hoarse whisper, 
bid Appleby ask ‘ him ’ (and she looked at Thirlwell) to tell them 
all he knew. 

‘ Better wait a bit, my lady,’ urged Appleby ; ‘ it’s such a shock 
— poor Mr Chester — we have all known him so long.’ 

But Lady Blunt would not wait. She sat pale, almost grey- 
tinted, while Mr Joseph Thirlwell entered with a sort of gloomy 
pleasure into all the painful details of the morning’s tragedy. 

‘ I was just up,’ he said, ‘ shaving, in fact, when I heard a 
tremendous peal at the surgery door-bell. I looked out, and there 
was Flo Chester — I — beg your ladyship’s pardon, I mean Miss 
Florence Chester, the second girl, your ladyship knows. There 
she was, anyhow, pealing and pealing at the bell like a mad thing. 

I ran down, your ladyship, and the doctor ran down too, and poor 
Flo — Miss Florence — gasped out, “Father has shot himself! 
Come at once!” and the doctor and I went at once — and — 
and perhaps I had better not go into medical details, as your lady- 
ship seems a little upset ; but one thing I ought to tell your lady- 
ship, for it must especially interest you, poor Mr Chester left a 
sealed letter behind him addressed to your ladyship.’ 

Lady Blunt slightly started, and put out her hand. 

‘ I’ve not got it with me, my lady,’ continued Mr Thirlwell, notic- 
ing this gesture ; ‘ in fact, the doctor took charge of it, and said 
he would give it into your own hands.’ 

/ And — and he sent you to tell me ? ’ asked Lady Blunt, still in 
the same hoarse whisper that she had spoken to Appleby. 

‘ Well, no ; not exactly,’ hesitated Mr Thirlwell ; ‘he sent me on 
some business connected with the affair ; in fact, to order the 
coffin ; but I felt your ladyship ought to know — being so long 
connected with poor Mr Chester in business — and so I did myself 
the honour to call, that I might have the — ’ 

The word ‘ pleasure ’ nearly slipped out, but Mr Thirlwell checked 
it in time. Had it been a pleasure this strange desire to make a 
woman’s cheeks blanch, and her blood freeze with horror? It was 
not duty that had called him there, and yet he had gone. He was 
a good-natured soul in general, and took life easily ; and yet had 
put himself out of his way to be the first to tell the dark story of 
despair and death. He had but obeyed an instinct, an instinct 
curious and not to be explained, opposed to what we desire to 
believe could belong to the feelings of any humane heart, and yet, 
nevertheless, belonging to it, as surely as many another strange 
anomaly. 

‘ Appleby, offer this gentleman some refreshment in the dining- 


A Last Request. 5 

room,’ said Lady Blunt, a moment later, yet speaking in the same 
husky tones ; and the two men looked at each other, and undei stood 
that Lady Blunt desired to be alone. 

‘ If you will come this way, sir, I shall be pleased to offer you 
some refreshment,’ said Appleby, now addressing Mr Thirlwell, and 
the young man nodded, and then glanced at Lady Blunt and made 
his farewell bow. But Lady Blunt did not see it. She was looking 
straight before her, and in an instant — as it is said occurs the 
moment before sudden death or in any great and grievous peril — 
the whole panorama of her past life seemed to pass before her. 

She saw her husband, the handsome Harry Blunt, who had won 
her heart so easily in her girlish days, when she had resolutely 
closed her ears to all reports against him, and married him only to 
find in his case that rumour had but spoken truth. He had never 
loved her, this husband, and her passionate aching heart had been 
too proud to make a parade of its dumb misery. But she knew, or 
thought she knew, that one person understood and sympathised 
vvith her. This was John Chester, the man of whose sudden death 
she just had heard. He was the agent to Sir Harry Blunt, and not 
only the agent, but the intimate personal friend, and all through 
the unhappy years of her loveless wedded life he had pitied Lady 
Blunt, and tried also to be her sincere friend. 

Then she became a widow ; her careless husband died suddenly 
in London, and John Chester went up to town, and brought her 
down her now unloved dead. He did everything to aid her then, 
and as time went on he continued to do so. And presently he in 
turn was widowed, his wife leaving him with two motherless young 
girls, and he naturally sought Lady Blunt’s advice and assistance 
about their dress and rearing. 

They grew more intimate after this, and one day John Chester 
so far forgot the distinction of social station which lay between 
himself and Lady Blunt, that he asked her to be his wife. She 
refused him — she could not forget that she was the only daughter 
and heiress of Sir Wilfred Sykes, a rich Yorkshire baronet — but 
though she refused him, this offer softened their intercourse ; made 
her sometimes regret that she had been born Dorothy Sykes, and 
not a simple maiden of yeoman state. She, in fact, learned to love 
the stately, good-looking man with whom she was constantly 
thrown, and who treated her with a tender deference of manner 
that she had never received from her wedded lord. 

For years and years things went on thus. Mr Chester managed 
all her property ; the Yorkshire estates, which, in her fond, foolish, 
girlish love she had refused to have settled on herself, and for 
which Sir Harry Blunt was generally supposed to have married 
her. But if he had waited a few years longer he would have had 
no necessity to look for wealth with his wife ; for a distant kins- 
man dying childless, had fixed on Harry Blunt as his heir, and a 
great fortune had thus come to an unworthy man. 

After this event. Sir Harry ceased even to carry on any pretence 
of caring for his wife. He lived principally in London among 
women whom his wife could not and would not have received, and 


6 Out of Eden, 

Lady Blunt’s love for her husband became a thing of the past ; her 
heart growing very bitter within her when she thought that she 
had not only thrown away her affections, but her fortune also, on a 
graceless reprobate. 

Death cut short Sir Harry’s career, and Lady Blunt lived on in 
her widowed state in the beautiful house by Weirmere, where she 
had gone as a happy bride. She lived here, trusting her agent, 
Mr Chester, with complete trust until her only child, young Sir 
Harry Blunt, left Eton and went to Cambridge. It was during the 
lad’s first vacation from college that he plunged a mental dagger 
into his mother’s proud, passionate, narrow heart. 

‘ I say, mother,’ he said one day, in his insolent, boyish manner, 

‘ they tell me you should look sharper after old Chester. He’s a 
confounded fellow for spec’s — going in for silver mines and lead 
mines, and, deuce knows what. Where does he get the money 
from, eh 1 Bet a tenner, out of your pocket or mine ! ’ 

Lady Blunt’s neutral-tinted complexion grew scarlet. 

‘ I have perfect confidence in Mr Chester, Henry,’ she said. 

She always called him ‘ Henry,’ not ‘ Harry,’ when she was dis- 
pleased with him, and she felt deeply displeased with him at this 
moment. 

The lad laughed as he answered, carelessly, ‘ It’s more than I 
have, then,’ he said; ‘but wait till I’m twenty-one, and then 
Master Chester will have to give a pretty sharp account of his 
stewardship.’ 

Nothing more was said at the time, but her son’s words left a 
jagged wound in Lady Blunt’s heart that time did not heal. She 
began to suspect Mr Chester’s motives for his care and tenderness, 
as long ago she had learned to suspect her husband. She was a 
shrewd woman also in a way, and gradually the conviction grew 
upon her that everything was not right. Yet she never had the 
courage to hint this to the handsome and apparently prosperous 
cheery man who rode up to the Hall each morning, and brought a 
blush to her faded cheeks and a strange flutter to her now disturbed 
and distrustful heart. 

Two years had passed away since Harry Blunt had first given 
his mother what he called ‘ a hint’ about Mr Chester, and in these 
two years Mr Chester had been a most unfortunate man. Every- 
thing, in fact, had gone wrong with him, and one after another his 
business speculations had failed. Then came a crowning blow to 
Lady Blunt, a blow which indirectly had brought about the dark 
tragedy of which she just had heard. 

But on the previous day a visitor had arrived at Weirmere, who 
had gone there from a stern sense of duty to perform a very 
painful errand. This visitor was one of the members of a well- 
known London banking firm, with whom Sir Wilfred Sykes had 
kept his account until the time of his death, and with whom Lady* 
Blunt also banked. This gentleman brought her terrible news. 
The large deposit account which had stood in her name had 
gradually been withdrawn, and suspicions, more than suspicions, 
had arisen that cheques which she had never signed had been 


A Last Request, y 

presented by Mr Chester, and of course paid. The immense 
sums withdrawn by a widowed lady living in seclusion had first 
roused these suspicions, and then inquiries about Mr Chester had 
been quietly made. He was known to have been an unfortunate 
speculator, and the bankers considered it their duty to inform 
Lady Blunt of this, and also to bring down for her inspection one 
of the cheques presented in her name by her agent. 

Lady Blunt looked at this cheque, and knew as she looked that 
her name had been forged, and that she had been shamefully and 
cruelly deceived. But, womanlike, she still did not betray the man 
she had loved. She said she must refer to her accounts, and that 
she would communicate with the bank after having done so. She 
spoke in a cold, distant tone, and her visitor felt that behind his 
unwelcome communication there lurked some secret that Lady 
Blunt meant to keep. Scandal, perhaps, had hinted what this 
secret might be. The widowed Lady Blunt might mean to marry 
this Chester, thought the banker, as he took his leave, and he felt 
as he returned to town that he had probably wasted his time by 
going to Weirmere. 

And scarcely had he gone when, with bitter indignation and 
passionate anger swelling in her heart. Lady Blunt summoned her 
agent to her presence. He came smilingly, little guessing the dark 
scene that awaited him, the bitter words that he was to hear. Her 
very love made her more cruel. She stood there taunting him, 
raging at him, until at last the man she had driven to bay turned 
upon her. 

‘ Good-bye, my lady,’ he said to her, as he moved to go, ‘ and I 
can promise you one thing — you shall never speak to me again as 
you have spoken now.’ And then he went away. 

Her heart cried after him, and yet she let him go. He would 
come back, she told herself scornfully, as she watched his tall 
figure vanish in the gloaming, ‘ come back and beg for mercy,’ and 
she gave a bitter sigh. 

Now sitting rigid, white, and cold, she knew he had kept his 
word. She could taunt him no more ; he had passed away for 
ever from her reproaches and her love. 

Lady Blunt was roused from her long death vision by the voice 
of Mr Thirlwell, the doctor’s assistant, taking leave of Appleby in 
the hall. Appleby had offered Mr Thirlwell some refreshment, 
and Mr Thirlwell had partaken of some refreshment, and while he 
was doing so had poured into Appleby’s eager ears every ghastly 
detail of the morning’s tragedy. Then, refreshed and relieved in 
mind and body, the young surgeon went away. He felt inward 
satisfaction in his mornings work. ‘ I was the first to tell poor 
Lady Blunt,’ he now could truly say ; ‘ she seemed terribly cut up,’ 
he might add, and both these facts gave him importance. 

Lady Blunt heard him go out of the house, and lifted her head, 
recalling herself with an effort from her mental gaze on the drear 
panorama of her life, and its grim catastrophe. She rose, she 
shivered, and with tottering steps went towards the bell and rang 


8 Out of Eden, 

it, and when Appleby answered it she spoke to him in such a 
feeble, broken voice that the butler looked at her in real anxiety. 

‘ I wish she mayn’t have a stroke,’ he was thinking, and he felt 
sorry that he had let the young doctor go. 

‘ Appleby,’ she said, ‘ Appleby,’ she repeated, ‘ I — I want rny hat 
and cloak. Tell Jenkins to bring my hat and cloak — 1 am going to 
Westwood House.’ 

‘ Oh ! my lady, excuse me, please excuse me,' said Appleby 
eagerly, in reply, ‘ but I’ve been a long time in your ladyship’s 
service ; and I’m sure, my lady, yon awful sight up there will quite 
upset your ladyship. That young man who has just gone has given 
me all particulars, and it’s enough to freeze one’s blood within one. 
He says the cries of the young ladies are just something fearful to 
listen to, and I’m sure, my lady, you’re best out of it.’ 

‘ Tell Jenkins to bring my hat and cloak,’ reiterated Lady Blunt 
in louder, harsher tones ; and Appleby felt that he could now only 
obey her, and so hurried out of the room to seek her maid. 

To this maid he confided his opinion that ‘ she,’ and he indicated 
by a jerk of his thumb that he meant Lady Blunt, was ‘ in a very 
bad way indeed, and not to be wondered at, considering all things,’ 
added the butler, with a mysterious nod. 

Appleby, in fact, had been ‘ laying one thing to the other,' as he 
mentally expressed it, since he had heard of Mr Chester’s sudden 
death. Appleby was a highly-respectable man, and had saved 
money in his lady’s service, and had a well-founded interest in stocks 
and shares ; but even highly-respectable men have their weak- 
nesses, and Appleby was not without his. He would have scorned 
the insinuation that he listened at the door, yet somehow he al- 
ways contrived to hear something of what was going on inside the 
rooms. He waited at table for one thing, and perhaps had a 
natural interest in the end of a conversation that he had heard 
begun. He had opened the door on the previous evening for Mr 
Chester, when he had paid his last visit to Weirmere Hall, and he 
had seen Lady Blunt’s darkling face as she received her agent, and 
had heard a sentence or two of her bitter accusing words. 

He had seen Mr Chester’s face also as he left the house — the 
desperate look of one at bay — and so Appleby had laid ‘ this thing 
to that,’ and had come to the conclusion that Lady Blunt’s words 
had nerved the hand that sent the fatal bullet on its way. 

Knowing this much then, he felt a genuine and most kindly 
feeling for his lady. Because a man has a few little faults or pecu- 
liarities, it by no means argues that he is a bad man, though his 
peculiarities may not be pleasant to others. Appleby might have 
a fancy for hearing conversations not intended for his ears, but- he 
was really sorry for Lady Blunt, and understood something of the 
terrible regret and pain which at this moment racked her heart. 
He understood too, and perhaps sympathised a little with, Mr 
Chester’s shortcomings. 

There, indeed, had been moments when Appleby had gazed 
pensively at the plate-chest, and had thought how some of its con- 
tents turned into money could be invested here and there so as to 


A Last Request. 9 

bring in three-fold. But Appleby had not succumbed to tempta- 
tion. The great silver dishes and flagons which had not seen the 
light of day for years, were the same for him. He might regret 
that they were not in the way of making a little profit, but he had 
confined his speculations to mental calculation only, but these cal- 
culations made him pitiful at this 'minute to Mr Chester’s memory. 

‘ Poor Chester,’ he said, a little later, to the cook in the kitchen, 
‘ who would have thought it V 

The dead man was done with the titles and respect of the world 
now. He was but ‘ poor Chester ’ in Appleby’s mind, and yet a 
year ago Appleby had sometimes thought that this same Chester 
would come to reign as lord and master at the Hall. He had been 
‘ Mr Chester’ then in the kitchen and reception rooms alike, and 
many a half-sovereign had Mr Chester slipped into Appleby’s not 
unwilling hand. But these things are soon forgotten ; future favours 
and not past ones command the smiling civility of man. 

But while Appleby was reflecting on various little episodes con- 
nected with Mr Chester’s long intimacy with his lady, that un- 
happy woman was on her way to look once more on her old friend’s 
face. It was a bright morning as Lady Blunt went out, and be- 
neath the green bank on which stood the Hall, lay the placid waters 
of Weirmere, a cradle for the sunbeams ; while beyond, near, and 
far away, the myriad-tinted hills glowed and shone with heaven- 
born lights. A beautiful spot this Weirmere, still and peaceful in 
the freshness of the early autumn morn, with the dew on the grass 
and the gossamer webs on the untrod path. But Lady Blunt 
looked not at lake or fell. Had a storm been raging around it 
would have better suited her dark mood. Despair, anger, and self- 
scorn by turns overwhelmed her. All her life she had been de- 
ceived, she was thinking — he had never loved her — no one had 
ever loved her ; and yet the cruellest, bitterest pang of all, he was 
gone — gone for ever ; she could no longer reproach him, and so 
she wrung her hands and moaned aloud in her great anguish. 

Shall we follow her footsteps .? Go with her along the walk by 
the lake side, and then turn yon wooded point and enter with her 
the valley of Weirmere ? Near the head of this valley, sheltered 
by the great hills around, stood Westwood House. Lady Blunt 
started as she saw that familiar dwelling-place. The blinds were 
down— it was all true then— John Chester was dead, and she had 
killed him — killed him with her bitter words. 

She quickened her steps, she almost ran. The garden gate 
stood ajar ; the glowing flower-beds lay in the sun ; but with a 
sickening sense of fear Lady Blunt saw that a policeman stood at 
the open hall-door, and that there were strangers loitering about, 
and that these strangers whispered together and looked at her as 
she passed. 

Then, just as she entered the house, a tall, slender girl, with dis- 
ordered hair and a tear-stained face, suddenly appeared at the 
doorway of one of the rooms opening into the hall, and ran forward 
and grasped Lady Blunt’s arm. 

‘ I saw you come ! ’ she cried. ‘ You have heard then — Lady 


10 


Out of Eden, 

Blunt, why did he do it? He was well and happy last night till he 
went down to you ! What did you do to him ? You must know- — * 

The girl peered eagerly, passionately into Lady Blunt’s face with 
her great dark eyes as she asked these questions, and held her 
fiercely by the arm, and Lady Blunt shivered and grew faint. 

‘ He has left only one letter — ^bnly one for you^ continued the 
girl, and then choking, hysterical sobs interrupted her utterance ; 
‘only for you — you must know something. What do you know ?’ 

As the girl repeated this question in loud and passionate accents, 
a grave-faced man — Dr Humphrey — who had heard her excited 
tones upstairs, now descended the staircase, and advanced towards 
her and Lady Blunt. 

‘Florence, my dear child, hush,’ he said, and he put his arm 
round the slender, quivering girl. ‘ You have come to a sad house. 
Lady Blunt,’ he continued, looking gravely, perhaps curiously, at 
Lady Blunt’s white, rigid face. ‘ You have heard — it is a terrible 
thing 1 ’ 

No word came from Lady Blunt’s pale lips. She stood there 
almost as white and grey as her old friend who lay upstairs, and 
Dr Humphrey, seeing the terrible mental strain that she was en- 
during, forcibly drew the girl, Florence Chester, away from her. 

‘ Sit down for a moment,’ he said to Lady Blunt, pointing to one 
of the hall chairs, ‘ till I take this poor child to her sister. You 
must come, my dear,’ he continued, speaking to Florence Chester, 
in a kind but very firm voice, and the girl yielded, and suffered him 
to half lead her, half carry her away. 

But he could not still her piercing cries. Sitting in the hall, 
through closed doors. Lady Blunt could hear her words. 

‘ She has killed him — that cruel, wicked woman has killed him 1 * 
And with a groan Lady Blunt stopped her ears to hear no more. 
But a few minutes later she started violently, as Dr Humphrey 
touched her shoulder. 

‘ I fear all this is very distressing to you,’ he said, ‘ but you must 
not mind that poor child’s foolish words. It has been a great blow 
to them, and Florence is completely upset. I’ve a letter for you, 
Lady Blunt,’ he added, a moment later, ‘ a letter from — our poor 
friend.* 

Lady Blunt held out a trembling hand, and looked eagerly, 
almost wildly, in the doctor’s face. 

‘ Come into the dining-room before you read it,’ said the doctor 
kindly, and he assisted Lady Blunt to rise as he spoke, and holding 
his arm, she crossed the hall, and entered the dining-room, and as 
soon as she had done so the doctor drew a letter from his pocket. 

‘ I will leave you to read it,’ he said, ‘ and go and look after my 
young patients yonder — poor girls, it is a terrible thing for them — 
a terrible thing 1’ And with a half-shrug, half-sigh, the doctor 
went away. 

As he did so, Lady Blunt, with heaving breast and starting eyes, 
sat still grasping her letter, unable apparently to face the dead 
man’s last words. Struggling with her bitter, passionate grief, she 
was trying to find strength to do so, when her eyes suddenly fell on 


11 


The New Agent 

a man’s hat and a pair of gloves, flung carelessly on the chair 
nearest to her. They were his — John Chester’s — and at the sight 
of these familiar objects Lady Blunt utterly broke down and fell 
upon her knees, kissing the gloves with wild and hopeless kisses. 

But after abandoning herself thus for some brief moments, 
strength suddenly seemed to come to her, for while yet on her 
knees she opened the letter John Chester had left for her. It con- 
tained not many words, but these embodied a last request : — 

‘ When you receive this,’ read Lady Blunt, ‘ the hand now writing 
it — the hand you have so often grasped in friendship — will be cold. 
For the sake of that old friendship, will you forgive me, and spare 
my memory ? I have done wrong, but I never meant to do so, 
and everything has gone against me lately : otherwise long before 
this I would have replaced all the money that has passed through 
my hands. But you said words to me last night that I cannot 
live to hear again, and so, after I am gone, will you, for the sake of 
what might have been, for the sake of our old friendship, at least, 
take charge of my two poor motherless and unprotected girls ? Do 
not refuse this, and believe that my last thoughts are full of love 
and trust in you. John Chester.’ 

Strange ! but these concluding words in the dead man’s letter 
came as a balm to Lady Blunt’s bitter, desolate heart. There must 
be truth in them, she thought — his last words could be no lie — he 
had loved her then, and to the lonely, grief-stricken woman this 
thought brought comfort. She read the words again and again ; 
she pressed them to her pale, cold lips ; she murmured a promise 
to fulfil his dying wish. Then she rose from her knees and took 
his gloves and hid them in her breast. She had forgiven him ; 
over her anger had passed the solemn shadow of death. 


CHAPTER 11. 

THE NEW AGENT. 

Half- AN-HOUR later Lady Blunt stood gazing silently on that 
mystery, of which the wisest man and the grief-stricken rustic have 
but equal knowledge. She was alone, looking on the familiar face 
in its new form. Instead of the smiling— perhaps somewhat shifty 
smiling — look of old, here was the dignity, the sanctity of death. 

He had been a handsome man this John Chester, who had had 
courage to face an unknown future, rather than a shamed and 
dishonoured life. There was no grey in the bright brown hair, 
and few lines on the clear skin which now looked so pure and cold 
and changed to Lady Blunt, who stood looking at him, haggard 
and pale, with a sort of fear— a sort of dread in her heart, of the 
man who but last night she had scorned and trampled on. He 


12 Out of Eden. 

had the upper hand now — she was afraid of him — this dead man 
lying there in his calm repose ! 

She did not touch him, but she knelt down and murmured a few 
words. 

‘ I will do what you wish, John,’ she said. ‘ I will take your girls, 
and do my best for them — I promise, solemnly promise, to do my 
best.’ 

Thus she made a covenant with the dead ; a binding covenant 
to her, for she was a woman of few words, but faithful and true to 
these words, and though she knew (for she was shrewd) that this 
promise would bring her but trouble and care, still it was a sort of 
relief to her in her bitter, silent grief to make it. She would do it 
for his sake. She had been cruel to him, she had killed him ; and 
whatever he had asked her to do in his last letter she would have 
done. He had asked two things : that she would spare his memory 
and take charge of his motherless girls. And these two things she 
was about to do. 

To spare his memory — kneeling there and making her solemn 
promise to John Chester, she remembered her son. Young Harry 
Blunt had been the first to warn his mother, now two years ago, 
that she had better look a little more closely after her agent’s deal- 
ings. Kneeling there, then, facing the dead man, Lady Blunt 
remembered the lad’s careless words, and remembered also that in 
a few weeks now her son would be of age, though, by her late 
husband’s will, he did not inherit either her property or the fortune 
Sir Harry Blunt had been left by his distant kinsman until after 
her death. Sir Harry Blunt had, indeed, left a remarkable will, 
considering the bad terms on which he had lived with his wife. 
He had left almost everything to her, charging the estate only 
during her lifetime with two annuities. One of these annuities was 
to his son and hers — Harry Blunt. He was left five hundred a 
year only during his mother’s life, any further allowance depending 
on her will and discretion ; and there was also another strange 
bequest which Lady Blunt thought of at this moment, and which 
brought a sort of flush even then to her pale and haggard face. 
This bequest was also an annuity of five hundred a year, and was 
left to a certain Robert Fletcher, coupled with a request, or rather 
a command, that, at the death of Mr Chester, Robert Fletcher 
was to be appointed agent to the estates in his stead. 

Lady Blunt knew of this Robert Fletcher, and at one time had 
hated his very name. He was known to be the illegitimate son of 
the late Sir Harry Blunt, and people said that Sir Harry had 
loved Fletcher’s low-born mother better than his high-born wife. 
In her early married days many-tongued scandal had whispered 
the sad story of this Mary Fletcher to Lady Blunt’s indignant ears. 
She had. been a country maiden, born on the Cumbrian hills, and 
she had listened to handsome Harry Blunt’s winning tongue, even 
as Lady Blunt herself had listened, and refused to believe all tales 
against her lover until it was too late. Then she had fled from her 
father’s roof, and hiden her shame amid the stir and noise of 
London. But it killed the old Cumbrian yeoman, and her father’s 


The Mew Agent 

death haunted Mnry Fletcher like a spectre. The story was that 
she died of a broke n heart, but her wasting sorrow was probably 
not caused only by her father’s melancholy end. Sir Harry Blunt 
was miserably poor in these days, and he could ill afford to support 
Mary and her two young children. But whether she died from 
grief, or from some bodily ailment, Sir Harry married the only 
daughter and heiress of Sir Wilfred Sykes in less than two months 
after her death, and brought his bride home to Weirmere Hall, 
where, from the green hill on which it stood, you could see in the 
blue hazy distance the homestead with its honeysuckle porch from 
which Sir Harry had tempted the hapless country maid. 

Lady Blunt’s first quarrel with her husband was about Mary 
Fletcher. Bitter words were spoken during this quarrel, words 
that rankled in Lady Blunt’s proud and passionate heart, and 
the married pair drifted asunder into a most unhappy man and 
wife. Sir Harry disliked his plain, sharp-tongued Dorothy, with 
apparently most unmitigated dislike ; but for years Lady Blunt 
clung (as women will) to a love that had brought but pain and 
sorrow to her. But at last even this love passed away, and when 
death made a final separation between them, Lady Blunt was glad 
to be free. 

In the meanwhile Sir Harry had not forgotten nor neglected 
Mary Fletcher’s children. The boy, Robert, had been well-educated 
and well-cared for, and was with his father in London during the 
last days of Sir Harry’s life. Sir Harry also, as we have seen, had 
provided in his will for his illegitimate son, and the Cumbrian farm 
which had been his mother’s early home, had descended to Robert 
Fletcher after his grandfather’s death, as the old farmer had willed 
it to his daughter’s son. Robert Fletcher was living at this farm 
with his only sister, Mary, at the time of Mr Chester’s sudden 
death. Lady Blunt knew her husband’s children by sight. A tall 
comely pair were these Fletchers, and Lady Blunt would turn away 
her head and sigh when her eyes fell on the brother and sister, for 
she sometimes met them in the churchyard after service, and some- 
times on the lonely hills round Weirmere. 

But she had never spoken to them. She knew well, and had 
often thought of that clause in her husband’s will, which appointed 
Robert Fletcher agent to her estates after Mr Chester’s death. And 
it was of this clause she was thinking now as she knelt by her dead 
friend’s side. She had just promised to spare his memory — how 
could she do this if Robert Fletcher’s searching eyes were to go 
over all poor John’s Chester’s papers .? 

‘ Poor John !’ sighed Lady Blunt, still looking half-tenderly, half- 
fearfully at the calm, dead face. How often she and John had 
talked of this Robert Fletcher ! Chester knew Robert Fletcher 
well. He had been thrown into business connections with him, 
naturally, about the late Sir Harry’s will, and Mr Chester had liked 
the stately, good-looking young man, who lived in the cottage by 
the lake side with his handsome sister, and who held himself aloof 
both from the gentry and the yeomen around. 

But sometimes Robert Fletcher went to Westwood House, and 


t4 Out of Eden, 

in a moment Lady Blunt, still kneeling there, and thinking how 
she could best save the memory of her friend— in a moment she 
remembered that lately a rumour had reached her ears that this 
Robert Fletcher admired Florence Chester, the second daughter 
of the dead man. 

‘ If this be true,’ thought Lady Blunt, and she rose from her 
knees. She would send for Robert Fletcher at once ; she would 
sound him, and do her best, at all events, for her old friend and his 
children. 

But she paused again before she left John Chester’s solemn pres- 
ence ; paused, and now put one of her own cold hands on the yet 
colder ones that lay so meekly crossed on the broad still breast. 

‘Good-bye, John,’ sho whispered, huskily, ‘when my time comes, 
and I see you again, you will know I have done my best.’ 

She said no more ; she dried her tears ; she straightened her 
disordered dress ; she prepared to meet the little world around her, 
that no doubt would be curious to learn how she carried herself in 
the first hours after she had heard the news of Mr Chester’s death ; 
and then after one long last look she left the room and went into 
the dining-room, and summoned Dr Humphrey to her presence. 

The moment the doctor entered he saw that she had made up 
her mind to do something that was of more importance to her than 
the indulgence of her bitter grief. She had the dignity of deter- 
mined resolve in her manner when she spoke to the doctor. 

‘ I have sent for you, doctor,’ she said, quite calmly, ‘ to ask, in 
the first place, how are the poor fatherless girls ’ (here her voice 
faltered slightly) ‘ upstairs ? ’ 

‘ N ot much to speak of, my lady,’ answered the grave-faced 
doctor, casting down his eyes ; ‘ it’s a bad business — bad for every- 
one — worse for the two poor homeless girls.’ 

‘ Not homeless, doctor,’ said Lady Blunt, quickly and sharply. 
* I mean to offer them a home at the Hall. I mean to do this to 
mark my — respect for’ (again her voice faltered)— ‘ for my old and 
faithful friend, and I shall provide for them in my will. John 
Chester’s daughters shall know no want.’ 

The doctor was touched. He looked at Lady Blunt, standing 
there so bravely, defending the character of the dead, as it were, 
by her acts, and his eyes grew softened as he looked. He knew 
more, or at least guessed more, than she thought. There had be^n 
serious rumours about John Chester’s affairs now for many a day, 
and it was supposed that he had often backed up his failing credit 
out of Lady Blunt’s well-filled purse. Then from the grief-stricken 
girls the doctor had heard the story of their father’s last ride to Lady 
Blunt’s ; how he had started well and happy, and returned gloomy, 
desperate, nerved to commit his fatal act With such an outline it 
was not difficult to fill in the sad details. Dr Humphrey had men- 
tally done this already, and half the countryside had also done it, 
and so the doctor was touched when he heard Lady Blunt’s words, 
and knew how loyally she meant to act to her old friend’s memory. 

‘ I am very, very glad indeed to hear it, my lady,’ was all he said, 
for he was a man not given to make fine speeches, but as he said 


The New Agent, 1 5 

the simple words he looked with honest admiration and regard in 
Lady Blunt’s pale and gloomy face. 

‘Will you tell them what I have said?’ continued Lady Blunt, a 
moment later. ‘ Tell them that I will come after — after all — the 
sad arrangements are over, and that I hope they will return with 
me then, and make my home theirs. And, doctor, there is another 
thing — you are an old friend — will you see that everything is done 
rightly ? They are but girls, they will not understand, but will you 
see that nothing is spared ? Let no expense be spared ; and I, of 
course, will defray everything. I wish this to be so, doctor — he — 
he was — my old and faithful friend, and I wish every possible re- 
spect to be paid to him now.’ 

‘ I will see to it, my lady,’ answered the doctor. He was thinking 
at that moment of the painful inquiry which must necessarily be 
held in this case of sudden death, and of the nature of the evidence 
he would then be called upon to give. ‘ But Lady Blunt seemed 
luckily to have forgotten all this, and it’s very well she has,’ 
thought the doctor. 

‘ I have taken upon myself to order your carriage, Lady Blunt,’ 
said the doctor, the next minute, ‘ and I see it’s here.’ 

For a moment Lady Blunt looked surprised, for she was a woman 
who did not like arrangements made for her, or her own interfered 
with ; but after thinking for a second she seemed to understand 
the doctor’s motives. 

‘ I thank you,’ she said ; ‘ I will go now ; ’ and so she went from 
the grief-stricken household, and was driven home in the bright 
sunshine. 

But the day did not pass without her making a new effort to save 
John Chester’s memory. As the sun was sinking over the green 
hills and dales round Weirmere, Lady Blunt despatched an especial 
messenger with a letter addressed to the man whom her late hus- 
band had appointed to succeed John Chester in his offices. 

This man, Robert Fletcher, was rowing his sister at that moment 
on the still waters of the lake. Amid the shadows from the 
hills, and the silence around, these two were sitting in their boat 
almost silent ; Mary Fletcher bending over the boat and letting 
her brown, shapely hand float on the water. She was a beautiful 
woman this nameless girl, who blusht'd when the country-folk 
spoke to her of her dead mother, and to whom her father had left 
neither name nor fortune. Sir Harry had provided for his son, but 
not for his daughter, who was two years younger than her brother. 
But on his deathbed Sir Harry had charged Robert Fletcher to 
look after his sister, and to give her a home until she married. This 
Robert Fletcher had gladly done. They indeed loved each other 
these two with a very strong affection. They were alone in the 
world, as it were, and they clung to each other in their self-sought 
isolation. For Mary refused to associate with anyone in the neigh- 
bourhood, and lived in the cottage by the lake side with no com- 
panions but her brother and her books. 

Yet she was so beautiful that many a substantial young farmer 
would gladly have forgotten her mother’s shame. She was tall 


1 6 Out of Eden. 

and stately, with a complexion so pure and fair that wherever she 
turned her beauty was remarked upon. But she had overheard 
whispers that had burnt into her heart, and she hated to go among 
people who pointed her out as ‘ poor Mary Fletcher’s daughter.’ 

She often wondered why her brother lived here, and why he did 
not take her away to other countries and among other people. 
But she guessed the reason. Robert went very often to Westwood 
House, and something told Mary — that strange instinct that women 
have— that Florence Chester was dearer to Robert than all others 
now. Mary acknowledged this to herself with a bitter sigh. She 
could not fill his life, nor be to him what she used to be. He was 
kinder than ever, affectionate and considerate, but she knew he 
was not thinking of her as he sat there in the boat, with the 
darkening evening shadows falling on his face. He was thinking 
of the grief-stricken girl at Westwood House, for they had heard 
of the morning’s tragedy very shortly after it occurred, and twice 
Robert had gone up to Westwood to inquire after Bessie and Flor- 
ence Chester. 

At last Robert spoke — spoke on the subject of which his thoughts 
were full. 

‘ I wonder what they will do ? ’ he said. 

‘You mean the girls?’ answered Mary. ‘Oh, probably live on 
at Westwood for the present at least. Lady Blunt is not likely to 
turn them out.’ 

‘ I don’t know,* said Robert musingly. He was thinking of the 
strange rumours about Mr Chester’s affairs ; thinking that perhaps 
some bitter revelations might now reach Lady Blunt’s ears and steel 
her heart against the daughters of her old friend. 

‘ What could be his motive for such an act?’ asked Mary. 

‘ It must have been a powerful one,’ answered Robert Fletcher 
gravely, ‘ for he was a man who apparently loved life, and life’s 
good things — and yet you see he preferred to leave it rather than 
face — ’ 

‘ Rather than face what ?’ said Mary, as Robert paused. ‘ Can 
you guess ?’ 

Robert was silent. Perhaps he did guess, but if so, he did not 
care to speak of it to his sister. 

‘Was he rich?’ asked Mary presently, and Robert shook his head. ^ 

‘ They say not,’ he said, and then he began rowing slowly to the 
shore. 

As they neared it they recognised Appleby, Lady Blunt’s butler, 
apparently waiting for them to land. 

‘ That’s the butler at the Hall, isn’t it?’ said Robert. 

‘ I think so,’ answered Mary. ‘ He seems waiting for us. What 
can he want ? ’ 

Appleby was waiting for them, and as the boat reached the shore 
he touched his hat, and went forward to meet them. 

‘ Excuse me, sir,’ he said, addressing Robert, ‘ but I have been 
to the cottage to seek you, and they told me you were on the lake, 
so I took the liberty of waiting for you, as my lady sent me down 
with a letter, and she especially wishes to see you, to-night.’ 


The Neiv Agent. jy 

‘What can she want ?’ said Mary Fletcher, sharply and coldly. 

‘ I fancy, miss, it's about this sad affair of Mr Chester,' answered 
Appleby. ‘ But here is my lady’s letter, sir, will you read it ?’ And 
he held out a letter to Robert. 

Robert took the letter and read it. It contained only a few words. 

‘Sir' (he read),— ‘ Can you conveniently come up to the Hall 
this evening, as I wish to see you on some business connected with 
my late husband’s will. — I remain, sir, yours truly, 

‘ Dorothy Blunt.' 

Robert Fletcher smiled after he had glanced over the brief lines, 
and handed the note to his sister, whose beautiful complexion 
flushed deeply as she read them. Then she slid her hand through 
her brother’s arm and whispered, — 

‘ Don’t go,' she said ; ‘ have nothing to do with her, Robert ; 
your lawyer is the proper person to see— after her late husband’s 
will.' 

‘ My dear,' answered Robert kindly, and he patted his sister’s 
hand, ‘ don’t be a foolish girl. The old lady won’t eat me, she can’t 
do me any harm — yes, Molly, I will go.' 

Mary Fletcher said nothing more : she dropped her brother’s 
arm ; she turned away her shapely head, but Robert saw she was 
deeply moved, and he followed her and laid his hand on her 
shoulder. 

‘ Don't be vexed, Molly,’ he said, ‘ but I must go. I partly guess 
what Lady Blunt wants with me ; and, besides, I may be of some 
use to the Chesters.' 

‘ Oh, in that case, of course go,' said Mary; but she said ‘of course 
go’ in a tone that meant to express he had better stay where he 
was. 

But he did go. He walked along the lake side with Appleby, 
while Mary retired to the cottage ; and he heard all the dismal 
details from Appleby’s lips, which the butler had learned in the 
morning from ‘ young Thirlwell, the doctor’s lad,’ as Appleby de- 
signated him. 

‘ They say the poor young ladies are nigh out of their minds,’ 
continued Appleby ; ‘ it was Miss Florence that found him first, and 
she was his favourite, poor man. It’s a bad thing for them poor 
young ladies, for from what I hear I fear they will be but badly 
left.' 

Robert Fletcher did not speak, but some strong feelings stirred 
in his heart, and he resolved at that moment to do anything that lay 
in his power to comfort and protect the fatherless girls. He little 
guessed that Lady Blunt had already offered them a home ; little 
guessed that Lady Blunt’s purpose in sending for him was also 
connected with these girls. 

‘ If he cares for Florence, for her sake and his own, he will spare 
her father’s memory,’ Lady Blunt had told herself a hundred times 
during the day ; and so restless had she become that she could not 
wait another day to find out the truth. She would see this Robert 

B 


1 8 Out of Eden. 

Fletcher at once, she said, and so she sent for him, and sat waiting 
for him with a strange, dull, nervous pain in her heart. 

When he entered her presence, for a moment she could not look 
at him. The blood rushed to her face, and her hands trembled, 
and it was Robert who spoke first. 

‘You sent for me. Lady Blunt?’ he said. 

What made her start and look so quickly at him when she heard 
his voice ? It sounded like an echo of the past to her. He spoke 
like his father, and these few words of Robert’s carried Lady Blunt’s 
memory back to the days when she had loved her husband, and 
been jealous of his looks and words. 

‘ Yes,’ she said, ‘ I — I — wish to say a few words to you.’ 

‘ I am quite ready to listen to them. Lady Blunt,’ answered 
Robert, with a smile. 

Again she half-started ; again looked quickly in Robert’s face, 
who also was steadily regarding his fathers wife. He stood there 
calm, stately, and smiling, while Lady Blunt fidgeted nervously be- 
neath his gaze. He was a good-looking young man, tall and straight, 
‘ handsomer than his father ever was,’ thought Lady Blunt, again 
glancing at Robert’s face, and seeing a likeness which was yet no 
likeness, wondering where the subtle differences lay. A physiog- 
nomist would have told her in the expression of the eyes. Robert 
Fletcher’s eyes were remarkable chiefly for a certain smiling, plea- 
sant look in them, which rarely was absent. The late Sir Harry’s 
eyes were not smiling ones ; he used to smile with his lips when his 
eyes were hard and cold. 

‘ I wish to speak to you,’ said Lady Blunt, a moment later, ‘ about 
this — this miserable affair.’ 

‘ You mean Mr Chester’s death ?’ said Robert, in a low tone. 

‘Yes,’ answered Lady Blunt, visibly agitated; ‘you know of it, 
of course — know the sad circumstances.’ 

‘ I have heard them.’ 

‘It is dreadful — too dreadful to think of — and there are other 
things — Mr Fletcher,’ continued Lady Blunt, rising ; ‘ my husband, 
the late Sir Henry Blunt, left a strange clause in his will — a clause 
that relates to you.’ 

Robert bowed but did not speak, as Lady Blunt moved agitatedly 
about the room. ' 

‘ In this clause,’ went on Lady Blunt, ‘he requested me, in the 
event of Mr Chester’s death, to appoint you — that is if you will 
accept the position — agent to the estates. This is why I have sent 
for you.’ 

Again Robert bowed. 

‘ There will be many things to see after, to look into,’ proceeded 
Lady Blunt. ‘ Mr Chester, my old friend, has passed away in the 
prime of life, when he might reasonably have reckoned on many 
years of life — but for the fatal disorder that must have attacked his 
overwrought brain, and in a moment impelled him to — to the 
miserable end.’ 

‘ It is a terrible thing,’ said Robert. 

‘And his ^ffairs—onr affairs,’ continued Lady Blunt, ‘must 


The Neiv Agent, 19 

necessarily be entangled — he was not himself of late — and I wish 
someone on whom I can thoroughly depend to arrange all this. 
You knew him well, did you not, Mr Fletcher ? ’ 

‘Yes, very well,’ answered Robert sadly. 

‘ And his daughters, his fatherless and motherless girls, you know 
them well, too, Mr Fletcher — you have an interest in them.?’ 

‘A deep, a most sincere interest,’ said Robert, and in a moment 
the brown lower part of his face, and the white upper part, which 
his cap protected from the sun, and between which there was a 
distinct line of colour — in a moment a crimson flush passed over 
the white forehead and the brown cheeks, and Lady Blunt saw this, 
and drew her own conclusions. 

‘ I can trust you, I am sure,’ she said. ‘ Will you accept the 
appointment, Mr Fletcher.? Poor Mr Chester had a salary of 
seven hundred a year. I offer the same, and, by-and-by, the house 
— to you.’ 

‘ I thank you. Lady Blunt,’ said Robert, after a moment’s thought. 
‘Yes, I accept the position ; the house I do not need — our cottage 
by the lake side will do very well.’ 

‘For the present,’ said Lady Blunt, with something stealing over 
her face that she intended for a smile. But it was but a wan and 
wintry smile at best. ‘ F or the present,’ she repeated ; ‘ but by-and- 
by you will want a large house — you will marry.’ 

‘ There is plenty of time for that,’ said Robert, with a smile also, 
and again the crimson glow dyed his face and brow. 

And so the affair was settled. Robert Fletcher was to take the 
place so suddenly vacated by Mr Chester, and as he left the room 
Lady Blunt felt that her dead friend’s memory was safe in his hands. 

‘ He loves this girl,’ she thought ; ‘ please God he will marry her, 
and one of them at least will be well provided for.’ 

And Robert Fletcher was also thinking of Florence Chester as 
he left Weirmere Hall. It was a beautiful night now, starlit, with a 
half moon shining down on the green hills and dales, and on the 
broad, placid waters of Weirmere. And as he went on Robert 
Fletcher looked up at the luminous sky with a strange, solemn feel- 
ing of awe and thankfulness. He could take this poor, grief-stricken 
child now and shelter her on his breast, he was thinking. The 
salary Lady Blunt had offered him, and his own small fortune, 
made this possible without disturbing Mary in her home. And but 
for Mary’s sake, Robert would have already asked Florence 
Chester to be his wife. And led by the passionate emotion of his 
heart, Robert turned almost unconsciously from the path by the 
lake that led to his home, and went up the valley of Weirmere, at 
the head of which stood Westwood House. 

He knew not why he went. He did not hope to see her, or even to 
hear of her, but she was there. This was enough, and presently 
he stood where he could see through the dark trees the lighted 
windows of the house, and pictured to himself the weeping daughters, 
and the dead father lying there in his solemn state. 

But suddenly Robert’s half-sad, half-tender thoughts were strangely 
interrupted. Along the path, out of the semi- darkness, something 


20 


Out of Eden. 

rushed by him so swiftly it might have been an arrow shot from a 
bow. And as this flying creature passed Robert it uttered some- 
thing between a shriek of terror and an exclamation. 

‘ What is the matter ? Who is it ? ’ cried Robert, turning sharply 
round. 

As Robert spoke the crouching, terrified figure that had just 
passed him stopped. 

‘ Fletcher ! is that you ? * it asked, still in accents of terror. 

Then Robert thought he recognised the voice. 

‘ What is the matter .? ’ he asked again, and he advanced a few 
steps ; advanced until he came up to Mr Thirlwell, the doctor’s 
assistant, who certainly was standing erect by this time, but who 
was white, and actually trembling with fear. 

‘Has anything happened?’ said Robert, laying his hands upon 
the young man’s shaking arm. ‘ Why, Thirlwell, what is the matter 
with you ?’ 

Then Thirlwell drew out his handkerchief and wiped his damp 
brow. 

‘ I’ve — I’ve had an awful — well — fright,’ he faltered out. ‘ Come 
away, Fletcher,’ and he clutched Robert’s arm. ‘ Come aw'ay, man, 
let us go together, for as sure as I’m alive the old boy there ’ (and 
his voice sank into a whisper) ‘ is up out of his coffin, and walking 
in his graveclothes in the garden ! ’ 

‘ Rubbish ! nonsense ! ’ said Robert. ‘ What do you mean ? It’s 
the moonlight on the trees, of course.’ 

‘ No, it isn’t,’ said young Thirlwell positively, still wiping his 
brow. ‘ I ain’t afraid — at least not very — but I won’t go near that 
place again except in broad daylight. Old Humphrey sent me up 
to look after the girls, you know, and there, sure as fate — when — 
when I opened the garden gate, there was old Chester. Yes, 
Fletcher, he’s standing there wringing his hands, and I dare not — 
at least of course I dare — but I won’t go near the place again for 
a hundred pounds ! ’ 

‘ I will, then,’ said Robert. ‘ What nonsense it is, Thirlwell.’ 
And Robert turned and began walking towards the house, followed 
at a prudent distance by the still shaking young doctor. 

When Robert reached the gateway he opened it gently, and as 
he stood considering what was best to do, something white truly 
stirred and passed up a retired walk in the garden, and Robert 
caught a glimpse of this white figure through the bow’ery branches 
of the trees. He moved to another point where he could have a 
better view of this walk, and his heart throbbed violently as he did so. 
From this point he saw the white-robed figure in the moonlight 
quite plainly. It moved up and down, and wrung its hands. A 
feeling of awe and dread crept over Robert; yet he looked at it 
steadily. Again the figure moved, and now Robert saw it was a 
woman ; saw it was Florence Chester, and yet stood still, afraid to 
intrude on this silent, terrible grief. 

Up and down the walk, up and down she went, wrfnging her hands, 
and yet she made no moan. Robert could see from where he stood 
her white face, and the strange, wild gleam in her eyes. She 


The New Age7iU 21 

looked almost mad, wrapped in a white dressing-gown, and with 
her long hair disordered and unbound. At last Robert could 
bear it no longer. He made a step forward, and spoke to her by 
her name. 

‘Miss Florence,’ he said, ‘ excuse me— forgive me speaking to 
you ; but — but 1 cannot bear to see your grief.’ 

She started when she heard his voice, and then, as he went near 
to her, she spoke, looking at him with the same piteous wild look 
in her eyes. 

‘ You have heard, then t ’ she said. ‘ You know he is dead— Lady 
Blunt killed him ! ’ 

‘ Oh I no, no, dear Florence, no,’ said Robert, and he took her 
cold hand. 

‘ Yes, but it is so,’ answered the girl eagerly ; ‘he was well and 
happy last night, and she sent for him, and when he came back he 
had death in his face. I heard him all the night wandering up 
and down ; and then I fell asleep, and in the morning — it woke me ! 
it woke me ! ’ 

And the unfortunate girl gave a cry, and wrung her hands in her 
overpowering grief. 

In vain Robert tried to comfort her. Over and over she told the 
same sad story. The noise of the fatal shot had roused her from 
her restless sleep, and she had gone into his room, and found her 
dying father. 

‘ He never spoke a word,’ she said ; ‘ only looked, and looked — and 
then he died ; and that bad and wicked woman killed him ! ’ 

She repeated this again and again, ‘ Lady Blunt killed him ! ’ and 
Robert found it was useless to argue with her on the subject. He 
tried to get her into the house, and while he was doing this young 
Thirlwell, the doctor’s assistant, who had crept after Robert with 
trembling steps, and stood shaking at the garden gate, having now 
reassured himself that it was not Mr Chester’s ghost that was in the 
garden talking to Robert, but his daughter, appeared on the scene, 
and advanced, assuming a professional attitude. 

‘We can’t have this. Miss Florence,’ he said; ‘we really can’t. 
The doctor sent me up to see after you ; what would he say if he 
heard you were out wandering in the moonlight ; you really must 
go in.’ 

Florence made no reply ; but she went into the house, and the 
young doctor laid a detaining hand on Robert Fletcher’s arm. 

‘ I say, Fletcher,’ he said, ‘ didn’t I get a start. I thought the 
old boy was out of his coffin again, and taking a stroll over the 
familiar scenes. But that girl should have someone with her — 
someone to control her, for there’s something wrong here,’ and he 
significantly touched his forehead. ‘ She ought to have a lady 
with her. I suppose your sister would not come?’ 

Mr Thirlwell made this proposition quite coolly ; for he had now 
got over his fright, and he was not bashful, and for a moment 
Robert felt and looked surprised ; then, after considering for a 
second, he recognised the good sense of Mr Thirlwell’s idea. 

‘ I will ask her,’ he said, ‘ if you will stay here till I come back.* 


22 


Out of Eden. 

‘Well,’ replied Thirlwell dubiously, who did not yet quite relish 
the idea of remaining at Westwood, ‘ if you’re .quick — ’ 

‘ I’ll be very quick,’ said Robert, and he hurried away, leaving 
Mr Thirlwell still feeling a little nervous. But Robert kept his 
word, and as quickly as he could walk, he went down the path by 
the lake side ; and as he neared their cottage he saw Mary stand- 
ing watching for him in the moonlight. - 


CHAPTER III. 

A SICK NURSE. 

When Mary Fletcher saw her brother returning, she advanced 
eagerly to meet him. 

‘ I’ve been so anxious about you, Robert,’ she said. ‘ What did 
that woman want .? ’ 

‘ I’ll tell you another time, Mary,’ answered Robert. ‘Now I’ve 
got a favour to ask you — a very great favour.’ 

Mary’s beautiful complexion flushed, and an uneasy look came 
over her face. 

‘ What is it .?’ she asked. 

‘ That poor girl, Florence Chester, is nearly mad with her grief,’ 
continued Robert. ‘She should have someone with her — some 
lady — Mary, will you go to please me ?’ And Robert took hold of 
his sister’s hand. 

‘Why should I go ?’ said Mary. ‘ Surely there are other people 
more fit — and she has her sister.’ 

‘ They are both very ill, Mary- — I have seen Florence — she was 
wandering about in the garden half out of her mind, and that fool, 
young Thirlwell, took her for a ghost, and got a terrible fright. 
But Florence is really ill — too ill not to be watched.’ 

‘Why does my lady not watch her, then?’ ?aid Mary bitterly. 
‘ They say, Robert, that Lady Blunt is going to take these girls to 
live with her at the Hall. Dr Humphrey told someone that Lady 
Blunt meant to do this.’ 

‘ Lady Blunt ! ’ repeated Robert, in surprise. 

‘Yes, so they say — and they say also that my lady killed Mr 
Chester, or rather that she made him kill himself.’ 

‘ What folly, Mary,’ said Robert, rather angrily. 

‘Perhaps it is — but at all events I would rather not go near 
them, Robert.’ 

For a moment or two Robert was silent, and then he put his 
arm through his sister’s. 

‘Your are prejudiced against Lady Blunt, Mary,’ he said. ‘All 
this is nonsense ; she is, I am sure, most kindly disposed to these 
poor fatherless girls, and she may, for anything I know, have 
offered them a home. And as for her causing poor Chester to 
shoot himself— why, it’s absurd — he must have been temporarily 
insane.’ 


A Sick Nurse, 23 

‘ People always say that, don’t they, when a man prefers to face 
death to dishonour ? ’ 

‘ Mary ! ’ said Robert, much annoyed, and he dropped his sister’s 
arm. 

For a moment or two they walked on together in silence, and 
then Mary, after glancing at Robert’s face, suddenly clasped his 
hand. 

‘Forgive me, Robert,’ she said, ‘I am rude— yes, I have been 
rude — I should not have said what I did.’ 

‘ Well, it was not kind, Molly.’ 

* I know — but I was vexed — oh ! Robert, I cannot tell you how 
vexed, about you going up to that woman at the Hall to-night !’ 

‘ But, dear — ' 

* Don’t having anything to do with her, .Robert,’ continued Mary, 
with a passionate ring in her voice. ‘ I cannot forget — if you can 
— our mother ! ’ 

‘Nor do I forget her, Mary,’ said Robert, very gravely; ‘but 
Lady Blunt had nothing .to do with our mother’s wrongs — our poor 
mother was dead — you knew this, before Sir Henry married Lady 
Blunt.’ 

Mary did not speak, she was crying, and Robert laid his hand 
kindly on her shoulder when he said this. 

‘ It is all so dreadful,’ sobbed Mary. ‘ Oh, Robert ! oh, Robert ! 
if you would but go away.’ 

‘ Go away ! Why ? Where do you want me to go to, Mary ?’ 

‘Anywhere — I don’t care where it is — but out of the sight of 
Lady Blunt — out of the hearing of — * 

‘ My dear,’ said Robert, as Mary paused, ‘ I know all this— all 
the circumstances of our unfortunate position must be very painful 
to you, but I cannot help it. I cannot go away, Mary. I may as 
well tell you now. Lady Blunt sent for me to-night to offer me 
what her husband left her in his will, a command to offer me — ^ 

‘ What ! ’ exclaimed Mary, starting and looking up. 

‘Sir Henry left a clause in his will requesting Lady Blunt, in 
the event of Mr Chester’s death, to offer me the agency of the 
property.’ 

‘ A nice way of providing for you I ’ said Mary, with extraordinary 
bitterness. 

Robert shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer. 

‘And you will take this.?’ said Mary, turning round indignantly, 
and looking at her brother’ in the moonlight. ‘You — you, who 
ought to be master — will take a paid servant’s place ? ’ 

Robert still did not speak ; he was biting his lips, and trying to 
control his temper. 

‘ Surely you will not do this .? ’ continued Mary. ‘ Go up there ! 
see this woman every day ! Oh ! Robert, you cannot ! you 
cannot ! ’ 

‘ My dear,’ said Robert, ‘ it is useless talking thus— I have 
accepted this position— I shall be glad of the income.’ 

‘ To marry Florence Chester ! 1 3 that it ? ’ asked Mary passion- 


24 Out of Eden. 

‘ If she will have me, yes,’ answered Robert ; and with a sort of 
cry Mary heard the announcement. 

‘And this is so.?’ she said ; ‘ I understand it all now,’ and bitter 
tears began pouring down her cheeks. 

‘ This is why I have asked you to go to her, Mary ; do you under- 
stand now ? ’ said Robert very gently, for he was sorry for his sister. 

‘Yes, I understand,’ answered Mary, with a choking sob. 

‘ I want you to be kind to her, to try to love her for my sake. 
She will be your sister, I hope, some day, Mary, and she is in 
bitter trouble just now.’ 

‘ Oh, very well, I will go,’ said Mary suddenly. 

‘ Will you really, my dear? It is very kind of you.’ 

‘ Oh no, not at all kind — I don’t go out of kindness.’ 

‘ What do you go for, then, you silly Molly?’ 

‘ To please you, of course — to conciliate my future sister.’ 

Robert laughed good-naturedly. He understood, perhaps, how 
Mary was a little jealous of him caring for anyone better than 
herself. 

‘Very well then, thank you for going to please me — and now 
how soon can you be ready ? In five minutes ?’ 

. ‘ You’re in hot haste.’ 

‘ She is very ill, Mary.’ 

‘ Oh ! very well, in five minutes then.’ And Mary left her 
brother, and went into the cottage to make some slight prepara- 
tions for leaving it. 

In less than five minutes she re-appeared, and Robert’s face 
brightened when he saw her. 

‘ Well, you’ve not been long at any rate,’ he said, and as he 
spoke he took her bag out of her hand, and offered her his arm, 
and they immediately started to walk to Westwood. 

For some little time they went on almost in silence. Then 
Robert said, suddenly, — 

‘ Who told you, Molly, that Lady Blunt had offered the Chesters 
a home ? ’ , 

For a moment Mary hesitated before she made any reply, and 
then she said, not quite in her usual tone of voice, — 

‘It was Dr Humphrey himself. When I was waiting for you 
outside to-night, he rode past, and I asked after the Chesters, and 
he told me.’ 

‘ Then it is true,’ said Robert. ‘ Humphrey would not have told 
you unless it were. But he didn’t tell you, I’m sure, that gossip 
about Lady Blunt having driven poor Chester to his rash act.’ 

‘ No ; that was some servants’ gossip.’ 

‘ I thought so. Poor Chester ! It is a most melancholy thing.’ 

Again the brother and sister walked on together in silence after 
this brief conversation.' And then, by-and-by, the almost oppres- 
sive stillness of the scene around was broken by the sound of a 
horse’s tread on the path behind them. Robert stopped to listen, 
and then turned round. 

‘ Here comes Humphrey himself,’ he said. ‘I know old Jenny’s 
trot a mile off.’ 


A Szc/: Nurse, 25 

It was Dr Humphrey, mounted on his old mare, and presently 
he overtook Robert and Mary, and Robert felt Mary’s arm twitch 
in his as the doctor addressed them. 

‘ Good evening,’ he said. ‘ I am riding up to Westwood again, 
for Thirlwell has sent down an especial messenger to say that 
Florence Chester is worse.’ 

‘She is very ill,’ said Robert, ‘and Mary here is going up to see 
if she can be of any use — sit up with her, or anything.’ 

‘ I am sure you can be of use,’ said Dr Humphrey, looking at 
Mary’s lovely profile in the moonlight, which, however, was turned 
away from him, for Mary had never looked at or spoken to the 
doctor since he joined them. 

Still Mary did not speak ; and after a moment’s pause the doctor 
continued, — 

‘She ought to have someone with her, for Bessie is no use, 
and Thirlwell wrote me a line to say she had got out into the 
garden, and was wandering about like a mad woman. The poor 
girl is, in fact, utterly upset— she’ll have a touch of brain fever, 1 
expect — yes, Miss Fletcher, I am very glad I have got such a 
nurse for her.’ 

Again the doctor bent slightly forward so as once more to catch 
a glimpse of Mary’s beautiful face. The beautiful face grew sud- 
denly crimson as he did so; then coldly, almost harshly, Mary 
spoke. 

‘Why doesn’t my lady nurse her? The lady-patroness of the 
neighbourhood ! ’ 

‘That speech is unworthy of Miss Fletcher,’ said Dr Humphrey. 

Mary bit her lips. 

‘ Mr Chester’s death has been a bitter grief to Lady Blunt,’ went 
on the doctor ; ‘ naturally a bitter grief, and she does not even know 
that Florence is so ill ; in fact, I wish to spare her this knowledge 
as long as I can. 1 do not wish Lady Blunt to see them at all at 
present — not until time has softened this sudden blow to them — 
for it would not make their future relationship easier if they met 
just now.’ 

‘No, the truth is spoken in moments *of strong emotion,’ said 
Mary, ‘and rarely spoken except then.’ 

It was now Dr Humphrey’s turn to bite his lips, but he bit them 
to suppress a sigh. He had a very grave, almost stern face, this 
doctor ; with large features, and dark, penetrating eyes. A man 
between forty and forty-five, a reader, a scholar, and an author of 
certain well-known medical books, he might have taken his place 
in a far wider world than the small one lying in the scattered 
villages among which he toiled. But he lived on near Weirmere ; 
lived on with his old mother, and seemed likely to remain bachelor 
to the end of his days. He had a large practice in its way, and 
would ride (musing as he rode) over hill and dale any hour of the 
day. People said he was a philosopher, but he was in truth only 
a sombre, thoughtful man. 

‘ Do you think they will go to Lady Blunt, then ? ’ asked Robert 
anxiously. 


26 Out of Eden. 

‘ I think it will be the best thing, the very best thing they can 
do,’ answered Dr Humphrey. ‘ She will give them a home and a 
position they could not have elsewhere. And for their father’s 
sake I think they should go — I shall urge them to go.’ 

‘ Why for their father’s sake ?’ said Mary quickly. 

‘ To stop idle tongues. Miss Fletcher,’ replied the doctor. 

‘ But,’ said Robert, with some hesitation, ‘ it might be unpleas- 
ant to them — might be trying — don’t you think so, Humphrey ?’ 

‘ I shall advise them to go,’ repeated the doctor. ‘ Not just yet, 
of course — no change can be made just yet — but in a little while I 
shall certainly advise them to accept Lady Blunt’s offer.’ 

By this time the trio had almost reached the gateway of West- 
wood House. The doctor pulled up his horse and threw the 
bridle over the gateway, while to his surprise Mary plucked a thistle 
and a handful of fresh grass and presented them to the old mare. 

The doctor smiled as he watched her. 

‘ “ The merciful man,” ’ he said, ‘ the merciful woman, in this 
case, “is merciful to his beast.” Thank you, Miss Fletcher, for 
coming to nurse my patient and for feeding my horse.’ 

‘ Oh ! Robert made me come to nurse your patient,’ said Mary ; 
‘and as for your horse — well, I’m fond of animals.’ 

‘ I’m glad of that.’ 

‘ I like them better than anything else,’ said Mary, with unneces- 
sary energy. 

‘The dumb brutes, eh !’ said the doctor, looking at Mary. 

‘ Yes, the brutes that are grateful for love, and true to it. I like 
them best.’ 

Mary said this as if she felt it. Her lovely complexion deep- 
ened, her dark grey eyes flashed. She stood there speaking as if 
she were attacking the doctor, and yet she was feeding his horse, 
and the poor man had been perfectly civil to her. 

‘Well,’ said Dr Humphrey, after another long look at her face in 
the moonlight, ‘ my patient is waiting for me, and Robert, you see, 
is already in the house.’ 

‘ Oh ! Robert is in love, I suppose,’ scoffed Mary. 

‘ Poor Robert, then ! ’ smiled the doctor ; and then he left Mary, 
who stood still holding her handful of grass to Jenny’s grateful 
mouth, and then suddenly and softly she laid her face on the old 
mare’s neck. 

‘ Faithful and true,’ she said, ‘thou art faithful and true.’ 

Munch, munch, went on Jenny, apparently totally unmoved by 
the sentimental outburst. Jenny, indeed, rather resented it as a 
liberty, and lifted up her ancient head in mild surprise. Yet Mary 
kept tenderly fondling Jenny’s white neck, and took off her bridle 
so that she might enjoy her supper with greater ease. While she 
was doing this Dr Humphrey reappeared, and in a moment Mary 
resumed her usual cold and haughty manner. 

‘ I want you to come into the house,’ he said. ‘ I want to see 
how you get on with your patient.’ 

‘ Yours, you mean,’ answered Mary ; but she followed the 
doctor into the house, and upstairs to Florence Chester’s bedroom. 


A Sick Nurse, 27 

But when she got there, her face softened again into womanly 
tenderness and pity. She saw a tall, slender, dark-eyed girl, walk- 
ing restlessly up. and down the room, with madness in her dark 
eyes, and incoherent words upon her lips. 

‘ It has attacked her brain,’ whispered the doctor, in Mary’s ear ; 
‘speak to her as soothingly as you can.’ 

Then Mary went up and took Florence Chester’s hand. 

‘ You know me, do you not ?’ she said, gently. 

Florence turned sharply round, and looked at Mary’s face. 

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you are a queen — a beautiful queen — and 
you’ve come to father’s funeral ; you know Lady Blunt killed 
him.’ 

‘ Yes, I know,’ said Mary. 

‘It was all done last night,’ went on the poor girl; ‘she shot 
him — I heard the shot, it woke me, and I think it struck my brain.’ 
And she put up her hand pitifully to her brow. 

‘ I will bathe it,’ said Mary, in such womanly, tender accents 
that Dr Humphrey looked from the sick girl to her in surprise. 
‘ Sit down, Florence,’ continued Mary, ‘ and lay your head on my 
shoulder, and I will bathe your brow.’ 

To their surprise, Florence complied. 

‘ She is a wicked woman, don’t you think ? ’ she said, looking up 
from Mary’s shoulder, as Mary laid wet cloths on her head ; ‘ don’t 
you think Lady Blunt is a wicked, wicked woman ? ’ 

‘ Yes, a very wicked woman,’ answered Mary quickly. But the 
next moment she remembered she was there to soothe the brain- 
sick girl, and not to excite her, and so she began some semi-plain- 
tive tale of an unhappy brood of youthful ducklings that had strayed 
from Mary’s poultry yard, and been lost amid the sedges of the 
lake. As Mary went on with her story, the weary fevered head 
once more fell on her shoulder, and presently the sick girl sank into 
a sort of fitful sleep. When the doctor, who was watching her, saw 
this, he laid his hand gently on the handle of the door, and with an 
approving nod to Mary left the room. But the sleep did not 
last, and by-and-by the old melancholy story was repeated again 
and again. It was indeed a dismal night. As Mary sat watching 
and trying to soothe Florence, she could not help thinking of the 
dead man who lay so near. Nay, once when the door gave a slight 
and mysterious creak she started violently. But as she glanced 
hastily round she saw the doctor standing in the doorway. He did 
not come in ; it was of the utmost importance, he had told the 
household, that Florence Chester should be kept perfectly quiet, 
and so he would allow no one to enter the room. But again and 
again during the long night Mary saw him steal to the door to 
watch his patient, and the knowledge of his presence in the house 
was an immense comfort and help to her. Then, when the grey 
dawn was just breaking, he did enter the room, and going up to 
Mary laid his hand slightly on her shoulder. 

‘ Now, my good nurse,’ he said, ‘you must go to bed.’ 

Mary by this time was fairly worn out. She was not accustomed 
to sitting up at night, and for some time her eyes had been closing 


28 Out of Eden. 

in spite of herself. But as the doctor touched her shoulder she 
drew herself quickly away, and rose to her feet. 

‘ Who is to stay with her then V she said. 

‘ I will stay with her,’ he answered ; ‘ now you go and lie down, 
you have fairly earned a rest.’ 

‘Very well,’ said Mary, and she went downstairs and lay down 
on the dining-room couch, falling three minutes later into a deep 
and placid sleep. 

When she awoke the sun was up, and she started to her feet 
with a strange, confused feeling that someone was in the room. 
But after rubbing her eyes and looking round she saw no one was 
there. She looked out of the window, and standing on the grass 
in front of the house she saw Dr Humphrey. His back was turned 
to her, and he was apparently intently gazing at the silver patch of 
the lake, just visible from where he stood. But he was not think- 
ing of the lake glittering in the morning sun. He was thinking of 
the beautiful woman he had seen a few minutes since lying in her 
placid sleep. He had gone into the dining-room not expecting to 
find Mary there, but lying on the couch, with her lips a little apart, 
and one shapely arm flung over the coverlet, was the girl, or rather 
woman, who at once strangely attracted and repelled him. And 
now he stood still looking at her. Of her beauty there could be no 
doubt. Her features were perfect in their pure outline, and her 
complexion was fair and clear as a lovely child’s. She was straight 
and tall, with just a touch (so it was said) of her mother’s yeoman 
birth in her fine limbs and firm, free tread. 

So Dr Humphrey stood looking at her, and as he stood she 
began to murmur in her sleep. 

‘Arthur,’ she said, and the doctor gave a little start as he 'heard 
the name, but the next moment shrugged his shoulders and smiled 
at his own folly. 

‘ She is beautiful,’ he thought. ‘ What a pity it is ; ’ and he turned 
away. 

But he felt restless and disturbed. The sleeping woman had 
murmured his own name in her sleep — how absurd it was — argued 
Arthur Humphrey scoffingly to himself. Yet it was strange, he 
thought again, and turning round he saw her face at the window, 
for Mary had roused herself by this time, and was beginning to 
wonder what time it could be. 

When Dr Humphrey saw her up, he returned to the dining-room. 

‘ I hope you have had a good sleep ? ’ he said. 

‘ I have been sound asleep,’ answered Mary ; ‘ and Florence — 
how is she now ?’ 

‘ No better,’ said the doctor ‘and for a day or two I don’t expect 
she will be better ; and I’ve been thinking it is really too much 
to expect you to stay here and nurse her — it is asking too much.’ 

‘ Oh ! very well,’ said Mary, ‘ I can go home at once,’ 

* Do not mistake my meaning,’ said Dr Humphrey ; ‘ I wish I 
could ask you to stay — she is quieter with you than with anyone else 
— ^but it is a wearing case, and I feel, we must all feel, she has no 
claim on you.’ 


A Sick Nurse, 

‘ No one has any claim on me/ said Mary, with quick and sudden 
emotion. 

‘ Not your brother ? ’ said Arthur Humphrey. 

‘Yes, Robert—’ answered Mary, trying to speak calmly, and 
subduing a certain choking feeling in her throat. ‘ Oh yes, of 
course, Robert — and for Robert’s sake, if you like, I will stay and 
nurse this girl — till you can get someone else.’ 

‘ Thank you very much ; and now, for Miss Fletcher’s sake, I 
think I had better see after some breakfast.’ 

Mary tried not to smile, but barely succeeded, and presently the 
doctor having roused the household, he and Mary sat down to- 
gether to breakfast. It was not yet six o’clock, but while they were 
drinking their tea, Robert Fletcher appeared on the lawn in front 
of the house, and passing the dining-room window looked in and 
nodded at Mary and the doctor. 

‘ I declare here is Robert ! ’ exclaimed Mary. 

‘ It is a very bad case, I think,’ smiled Dr Humphrey. 

‘Absurd !’ said Mary, and then she got up to kiss her brother, 
who had now entered the room. 

‘ You are an early visitor,’ she said. 

‘Yes,’ said Robert, ‘I felt anxious about you — and Miss Flor- 
ence — ’ And he turned very red. 

‘ Oh, of course,’ said Mary, with a shrug. 

‘ How is — ’ hesitated Robert, looking at the doctor. 

‘Miss Chester.?’ said Dr Humphrey, going on calmly with his 
breakfast. ‘Well, she is very ill.’ 

‘ And you two sitting here ! ’ said Robert hastily. 

‘ We must live, my dear fellow,’ said the doctor. ‘ But don’t 
look so horrified — Miss Chester is certainly very ill, but we will pull 
her through, and you must remember while you have been snoring, 
your sister and I have been sitting up.’ 

‘I have not been snoring,’ said Robert indignantly; and then 
seeing that the doctor was only laughing at him, Robert’s own 
smiling eyes assumed their natural expression. 

‘All right,’ he said; ‘but snoring is fatiguing sometimes, so 
Madame Molly, if you have any to spare, will you give me some 
tea.?’ 

‘ Sit down here,’ said Mary affectionately. ‘ Poor old fellow ! I 
don’t believe he has been asleep at all,’ and she patted her brother’s 
shoulder. 

Mary had guessed the truth. Robert had not been asleep at all, 
or certainly for a very short time. He had spent the night wander- 
ing about Westwood House and watching the lighted window where 
Mary was keeping her weary vigil. He had seen the first gleam 
of dawn break in the sky, and then he had gone home to lie down 
for an hour. But before six o’clock he was walking up the path 
by the lake side, and his anxiety grew so great that he felt he 
must go and inquire how Florence Chester was, as he concluded 
that the household would now be astir. Thus he found the doctor 
and Mary getting their breakfast, and when he joined them he good- 
naturedly bore some little not unkindly jests on his early rising. 


30 


Out of Eden» 


CHAPTER IV. 

MARY. 

During the next few days Mary stayed on at Westwood. She 
was there during all the sad end to the miserable tragedy that had 
made the house masterless ; there when they bore John Chester 
away, and when a black-robed lady came to the house and followed 
her dead friend to the grave. 

Lady Blunt had insisted upon paying this last respect to Mr 
Chester’s memory. Dr Humphrey had pointed out as delicately 
as he could, that he was afraid the strain might be too much for 
her, but Lady Blunt had replied in her cold, distant way that she 
meant to go, and also signified her desire that all the tenants 
around should go as well. So a long procession started one bright 
morning from the pleasant home behind the hills, and slowly went 
down the side of lovely Weirmere, on whose breast the sun shone, 
while the birds twittered and sang among the new plantations that 
John Chester’s hand had planned. 

Lady Blunt went with the rest and made no sign of her bitter, 
self-reproachful grief. She stood by the open grave, and she heard 
the first sod thrown on the coffin and then suddenly fainted away. 
She fainted into Robert Fletcher’s arms, who had been watching 
her white quivering features for the last few moments, and who 
had gone quietly to her side. * ' 

He lifted her into her carriage, and then remembering that his 
own cottage by the lake side was the nearest house to the church- 
yard, he ordered the coachman to drive there, and sent one of the 
sympathising farmers who stood around for Dr Humphrey. 

Not until the poor lady was laid on Mary’s bed did Robert re- 
member this very room had once been his mother’s. He flushed 
and bit his lips when the thought occurred to him. But there was 
nothing could be done now but to try to make the best of it, and 
he did try. He got brandy and he bathed Lady Blunt’s cold brow 
with cold water, and then he thankfully heard the doctor arrive at 
the cottage. 

Dr Humphrey came into the room very quietly. He felt Lady 
Blunt’s pulse, and sounded her heart, and gave an almost imper- 
ceptible shake of his head as he did so. He then proceeded to 
use means to recover her, and after a considerable time she revived. 

Her first words were characteristic. 

‘ It was the heat,’ she said, looking with her sunken eyes from 
the doctor to Robert. 

‘ Yes,’ said Robert, with ready sympathy in his looks and manner, 
‘ and now that you feel better I will leave you with the doctor. Yes, 
it was the heat.’ 

It was not hot, but a bright fresh September day, with a breeze 
on the water and among the rustling branches of the trees, from 
which the leaves fell dancing down fast and merrily. Not hot, 
but cold, cold— and Lady Blunt shivered as with a sudden chill 


Mary, 31 

as Robert Fletcher left the room, and she drew the coverlet of the 
bed on which she lay around her. 

‘ Where am I ? ’ she asked the next minute, looking up at Di 
Humphrey. 

‘ In Robert Fletcher’s house,’ answered the doctor ; as he spoke 
a sudden change came over Lady Blunt’s face. 

‘ In Robert Fletcher’s house ! ’ she repeated ; ‘ then — ’ 

Oh ! what a tide of bitter thoughts rushed over her at that 
moment I Robert Fletcher’s house — his mother’s house, where in 
her girlish days the woman lived whom her husband had loved — 
loved even after she was dead — thought Lady Blunt, with a bitter, 
angry sigh. 

‘ Who brought me here?’ she asked, haughtily. 

‘It was the nearest house — Lady Blunt; you must not excite 
yourself. Remember if you do, you will be very ill,’ answered the 
doctor. 

So, with a moan. Lady Blunt turned her head upon the pillow 
•and lay still. She felt, indeed, physically incapable of moving 
The strain she had put on herself had been too much for her, and 
she was utterly shattered with her own overpowering emotion. And 
while she lay there, overcome and broken-hearted, there entered 
swiftly at the honeysuckled porch of the cottage from which her 
mother had fled, an angry, indignant, passionate woman. 

This was Mary Fletcher. She had heard that Lady Blunt had 
been taken to their cottage, and the most passionate anger had 
rushed into her heart. Forgetting her charge, forgetting everything 
but her burning indignation, she had at once hurried home, and 
now entered the parlour where Robert was sitting, absolutely pale 
with passion. 

‘ Who brought that woman here ? ’ she asked. ‘ Who dared to 
bring her here ? ’ 

‘ Mary ! ’ said Robert, starting to his feet, ‘for heaven’s sake be 
quiet ! ’ 

‘ Who brought her here?’ repeated Mary, trembling with excite- 
ment. ‘ I won’t have Lady Blunt here. Robert, have you no feel- 
ing, none, for your dead mother?’ 

‘Hush, Mary ! be silent,’ said Robert, seizing his sister rather 
roughly by the shoulder; ‘surely on a day like this, just from poor 
Chester’s funeral, you ought to have a little consideration, a little 
forbearance, and Lady Blunt is very ill.’ 

Before the angry, indignant words framing on Mary’s lips in reply 
to this could be uttered, the door of the parlour once more opened, 
and Dr Humphrey, looking very grave, came in. 

‘ Excuse me. Miss Fletcher,’ he said, ‘ but Lady Blunt’s condition 
is precarious, and she can hear your voice upstairs.’ 

Mary’s eyes fell as Dr Humphrey spoke, and an expression of 
shame came over her face, but still she answered with a certain 
defiance of manner. 

‘ She had no right to come here,’ she said. 

As Mary said this. Dr Humphrey looked at her with great pity. 
She stood there, a beautiful young woman, who secretly writhed, 


32 Out of Eden, 

he well knew, under the misfortune of her birth, but who usually 
wrapped herself in cold pride and reserve. But now she was 
excited out of this ; in her passionate anger she was betraying the 
true bitterness of her heart. 

‘ Lady Blunt was brought here while unconscious,’ continued the 
doctor, with a ring of sympathy in his voice which Mary’s womanly 
ear quickly recognised, ‘ and it really would not be safe for her in 
her present state of health to be moved for an hour or two ; and so, 
if I may. Miss Fletcher, I would like now to escort you back to 
Westwood House, for I feel a little uneasy about your patient 
there.’ 

Mary bit her lips, and turned away her head, and then with an 
effort she spoke. 

‘ I had better go,’ she said, and without looking at Robert, and 
with her stately head erect, she walked out of the cottage. 

‘ Poor Mary,’ said Robert, as she passed out of the porch. 

‘ I will go after her,’ said the doctor, and so he followed Mary, 
overtaking her as she walked quickly along the path by the lake side. 

‘You walk fast,’ said Dr Humphrey, with a smile. 

‘ Do I ?’ answered Mary, without turning her head. 

‘ Do not be vexed with Robert,’ continued Dr Humphrey, walk- 
ing by her side, ‘ he could not help doing what he did, fpr Lady 
Blunt was dangerously ill.’ 

‘She should not have gone to Mr Chester’s funeral,’ said Mary 
coldly. 

‘ That is a matter of opinion ; she could not foresee she would be 
taken ill, you know.’ 

For a moment or two Mary made no answer to this, and then 
she gave one quick, tremulous glance at her companion. 

‘ Do not think me quite heartless,’ she said, ‘ but — you know the 
circumstances.’ 

‘ Yes, and I think you over-estimate them,’ said the doctor frankly. 

‘Over-estimate them !’ repeated Mary quickly. ‘ How can you 
over-estimate what has robbed you of everything.?’ 

‘ Not everything,’ said Dr Humphrey, and as he spoke a sudden 
flood of colour dyed Mary’s face, and even stole down to her shapely 
throat. 

‘ What do you think of Florence Chester ?’ she asked, hastily ; 
‘ I mean do you think she will soon be well ? ’ 

‘ Yes, I think she will,’ answered the doctor ; ‘ she has an excit- 
able temperament, and the sudden shock of her father’s death com- 
pletely upset her for a time, but it will all pass away — she is an 
attractive girl. Did you know her well before her illness ?’ 

‘ I had just spoken to her, that was all — yes, she is a pretty girl ; 
I suppose she will marry Robert ? ’ 

‘ I suppose so,’ smiled Humphrey ; ‘for the present, of course, 
it is out of the question — for the present they must go to Lady Blunt’s.’ 

‘ I do not think Florence will go.’ 

‘ Oh yes, she will — she will see by-and-by the reason for it — in a 
week or so. I hope she will be well enough to go.’ 

And this prophecy of Dr Humphrey’s proved true. In a fort- 


Mary. 33 

night after her father’s funeral, Florence Chester was so far re- 
covered from the sharp attack of fever that had seized upon her 
brain, that, wrapped in a white shawl, and pale and trembling, she 
was able one sunny morning to go down into the garden, leaning on 
Mary’s arm, whom she had earnestly entreated not yet to leave her. 

She was quite herself now, and again and again had thanked 
Mary for her kindness in nursing her. 

‘It is so good of you,’ she often said, and she would slide her 
white little trembling hand into Mary’s firm cool palm. 

She was attractive, as the doctor had said, this girl, if not 
beautiful. She was tall and slender, with small features, and 
beautiful dark eyes, and there were many who called her hand- 
somer than the really lovely Mary Fletcher. But it was in truth 
her manner that was her chief charm. 

‘Where is Flo.?’ her poor father used to cry the moment he 
returned home, and Flo used to hang on her father’s arm, laughing 
and chattering, and telling him in her pleasant way all the little 
gossip of the day ; leaving the plainer elder sister very much alone. 

Mr Chester had indeed been very proud of Florence, and used 
sometimes to annoy Lady Blunt by talking too much of her beauty. 
Lady Blunt, in fact, did not see this beauty, and was, moreover, a 
woman who did not like beauty. It was unjust, she thought, that 
some should have this gift and win love so easily, and others — 
perhaps more worthy of love — find it so hard to get and hard to 
keep. So she would tell Mr Chester she did not think Florence 
handsome, and that his eldest girl Bessie was quite as good-looking ; 
but Mr Chester used to shake his head and smile. 

He knew Florence was handsome, and he knew also that Robert 
Fletcher, and most men also who had ever looked on her face, or 
listened to her winning tongue, thought her handsome. But this 
was not so with Bessie. 

‘ But is she true ? ’ sometimes Mary Fletcher asked herself, as 
she sat in the sunny garden at Westwood, and watched the mobile, 
attractive face of the girl that one day she expected would be her 
sister. 

And Mary could never quite answer this mental question to her 
own satisfaction. Yet still she admitted that Florence Chester, if 
smiling and gracious in the presence of her friends, was equally 
gracious in speaking of them in their absence. There was, how- 
ever, an exception to this, and this one exception was Lady Blunt. 

When maddened by her sudden loss, and all through the fever 
that subsequently attacked her brain, she had always said Lady 
Blunt killed her father, and now, sane, and quickly regaining her 
health, she said pretty much the same thing. 

‘ Of course, I cannot tell what it was,’ she told Mary, ‘ but he 
never would have done what he did but for Lady Blunt. Perhaps 
she had refused him— I used sometimes to think he meant to marry 
her— I cannot tell ; but dear father’s last hours were, I am sure, 
embittered by Lady Blunt.’ 

Mary could not tell her what was generally supposed to have 
embittered her father’s last hours. She could not say people said 

C 


34 Out of Eden, 

this or that ; but when Florence said something of the same kind 
to Robert Fletcher about Lady Blunt, Robert answered with quick 
earnestness, — 

‘ Do not blame Lady Blunt, Miss Florence — she is, she was, 
your father’s truest friend.’ 

Robert had indeed just reason to say this. In these days, when 
Florence and Mary, and sometimes Bessie Chester, were sitting in 
the sunny garden at Westwood, Robert, in his new capacity of 
agent to the property, was wading through Mr Chester’s muddled 
accounts in a back room of the house, where the late master had 
transacted his business. And as he went on with his task, Robert 
grew more amazed and touched by the generous love that had done 
so much to shield the memory of her friend. They were not small 
sums that Mr Chester had appropriated. They were indeed such 
large sums that Robert and Lady Blunt were forced to discuss the 
painful details together, and to consult how Mr Chester’s affairs 
could be best hidden from the world, and also from' the young heir. 
Sir Harry Blunt. 

But whilst yet in the midst of many perplexing questions, both 
to Lady Blunt and Robert Fletcher’s annoyance, young Sir Harry 
unexpectedly arrived at Weirmere. He came one night, and. early 
the next morning, while Mary and Florence Chester were as usual 
in the garden at Westwood, to their surprise young Harry Blqnt 
opened the garden gate and walked in very unceremoniously. 

He, however, looked and felt ’abashed when he saw Mary and 
Florence. 

‘ Beg your pardon,’ he said, touching his hat ; ‘ didn’t expect any 
of you ladies would be up at this hour ; and I came on a little 
business.’ 

‘ My brother, Mr Fletcher, will be here presently,’ said Mary 
coldly. 

‘Oh! then you’re Miss Fletcher.^’ said Sir Harry, looking at 
Mary’s handsome face. ‘ Oh — yes, of course — but it’s of no con- 
sequence what I want — only a rifle I lent poor Chester.’ 

‘ A rifle ! ’ said Florence Chester, who had not yet spoken. 
‘ Then I can get it for you ; I know where it is ; my father pointed 
a rifle out to me not long before his death, and said it belonged to 
you — to Sir Harry Blunt.’ 

As Florence said this, young Harry looked at her with his some- 
what bloodshot eyes, apparently in great astonishment. 

‘ Why, you are not, surely — you cannot be — one of poor Chester’s 
girls.?’ he said, still staring at Florence’s face. 

‘Yes,’ she answered, with a smile, ‘I am Florence Chester; but 
I have not seen you for four years.’ 

‘ By Jove !’ exclaimed young Harry, and nothing more. 

‘ I was away the last time you were here,’ continued Florence, in 
her smiling, gracious way, ‘ But don’t you remember me even a 
little bit ? I remember you.’ 

‘You are so changed — so improved,’ blurted out Harry Blunt, 
with his eyes yet fixed on Florence ; ‘ I — I remember a half-grown 
girl— I mean young lady ; but you—’ 


The Young BaroyieU 35 

‘ I am quite grown now, you see,^ said Florence, still smiling ; 
‘ and I can get you your gun if you want it — only I am so weak, 
for I have been so very ill — and someone must give me an arm.’ 

Florence Chester looked at young Harry as she said this in her 
pretty, appealing way, and before Mary could offer her any assist- 
ance Florence was absolutely leaning on Harry Blunt. 

‘ I feel so shaky,’ she said, smiling, and looking at the you*ig 
man, whose face was only level with her own. 

The young man also felt ‘ shaky.’ A strange nervous feeli».g 
stole over him. This white-robed girl, with her shining dark eyes 
leaning on his arm, created a new and unaccustomed emotion ii 
his heart. 

‘ Lean on me,’ he stammered out, and so the two went awa,. 
leaving Mary alone in the sunny garden. 

She sat there nearly half-an-hour. She did not like to foNow 
Florence and young Blunt, and yet she felt that probably both Dr 
Humphrey and Robert would scold her for allowing Florence to 
over-exert herself 

And presently Robert appeared at the garden gate, and at once 
asked anxiously for Florence. 

‘ She has gone into the house with young Blunt,’ answered Mary. 
‘ He came to seek a gun he had lent Mr Chester, and Florence has 
gone with him to get it.’ 

‘ Good heavens ! you don’t mean it .?’ cried Robert. ‘ Why, Mary, 
that rifle is in the gunroom, and in the gunroom, too, is the pistol 
with which poor Chester ended his life ! ’ And without another 
word, and quite pale, Robert hurried down the garden, and went 
hastily into the house to seek Florence and Sir Harry. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE YOUNG BARONET. 

The gunroom at Westwood had been planned and built by the 
late Mr Chester, and was indeed one of the prettiest rooms in the 
house. It was panelled with dark-stained wood, and the ceiling 
was also of ornamental woodwork, and it opened with a glass door 
on a little terrace, from which there was a lovely view, and in the 
blue distance a silver streak from the placid lake. 

Robert Fletcher reached this room absolutely pale with appre- 
hension. What might have happened? he was thinking. What 
terrible memories might have come back to Florence, and undone 
all the care, nursing, and anxiety of weeks. 

Yet this was the picture he saw as he entered the gunroom. It 
was empty, but the glass door to the terrace outside was open, and 
standing on this terrace was young Sir Harry Blunt. He was lean- 
ing on a gun, laughing and talking, and looking down at Florence 
Chester, who was sitting on a low seat, and smiling up in Sir Harry’s 
ordinary face I 


36 Crut of Eden, 

Robert— a moment before pale with fear, now grew red with 
sudden anger. There was to him something unseemly in this 
picture. True, weeks 'had passed since Mr Chester’s death, and 
Florence had smiled and chatted to him many a time of late, just 
as she was now smiling and chatting to Sir Harry. 

‘ But that is different,’ frowned Robert Fletcher, and with this 
frown still on his brow he joined the two young people on the terrace. 

Sir Harry looked up annoyed when he saw him. 

‘ Oh — Mr Fletcher,’ he said, in his patronising way. ‘ Good 
morning — you see I’ve got here before you, and got my rifle, too— 
Miss Chester has been good enough to get it for me.’ And again 
he smiled at Florence. 

‘Yes,’ said Florence, rising from her lowly seat, ‘ I knew where 
it was — poor father ’ (and her face changed) ‘ showed it to me, so I 
got it for Sir Harry.’ 

‘ I am sorry that you should have had the trouble,’ said Robert 
Fletcher stiffly ; ‘ but I did not expect Sir Henry would be here so 
soon.’ 

‘ Oh, as for that,’ said Sir Harry carelessly, ‘ I was out early, so 
I called ; but, Miss Chester,’ he added, ‘ it is such a splendid 
morning, do let me persuade you to go for a row on the lake. Mr 
Fletcher here will send round for the boat — I wish you would go.’ 

But after one glance at Robert’s face Florence herself seemed to/ 
see the unfitness of this proposition. 

‘ No, not this morning,’ she said ; ‘ no, really I cannot go — I have 
been such an invalid, you know — and — and I would rather not go.’ 

‘ Well, some other day, then,’ said Sir Harry, rather sulkily, for 
this young man was unused to disappointment of any kind, and 
made his own pleasure always his first consideration. ‘ I say, Mr 
Fletcher,’ he continued, ‘ about that horse you were talking of — 
could I see him just now?’ 

‘ Yes, certainly. Sir Henry,’ replied Robert. ‘ You will find my 
sister still in the garden,’ he added, looking at Florence. 

Florence smiled and nodded, and then the two young men left 
her, going down from the little terrace into the grounds below.’ 

‘ That’s a splendid girl of old Chester’s,’ were the young baronet’s 
first words after they were fairly on their road to the stables, and 
out of hearing. ‘ What a pair of eyes she’s got ! She’s a glorious 
girl, and good fun too.’ 

Robert bit his lips, and made a very curt answer. 

‘ She is considered handsome,’ he said. 

‘ I should think so,’ continued Sir Harry. ‘ I like that sort — 
those dark, dangerous eyes mean so much.’ 

Robert Fletcher growled out something, and tried to change the 
conversation. But young Sir Harry persisted in talking of Florence, 
and expatiated on her charms in such a manner that Robert felt an 
almost irresistible wish to knock him down. 

He pulled up a little, however, presently, out of consideration of 
the presence of the stable-boy, and at last Robert got rid of him 
and returned to the house, going back by the gunroom terrace, 
which was his nearest road. 


The Young Baronet, 37 

But to his surprise when he entered the gunroom he found 
Florence still there. She was standing leaning her hand on the 
back of her father’s arm-chair, and when she lifted her head on 
hearing his footstep, Robert saw she was crying. 

‘ Oh, you are back ? ’ she said, gently. ‘ Poor father — everything 
here reminds me of him.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Robert, ‘but I think we had better join Mary now ; I 
have just got rid of that young cub.’ 

‘ Sir Harry ? Is he a cub ?’ asked Florence ; and she half smiled 
even amid her tears. 

‘ Well, what do you think?’ 

‘ Oh, I don’t know — I have never thought about him at all,’ 
replied Florence ; and so the frown vanished from Robert’s brow, 
and he told himself he was no better than a fool. ‘ A fellow like 
that ! ’ he thought, with perhaps a little complacent vanity. 

‘He’s a cool young cub at any rate,’ he said, looking with his 
smiling eyes at Florence. ‘ Fancy him asking you to go out in a 
boat ! ’ 

‘ Oh, I suppose he thinks himself master here,’ said Florence. 

‘ I suppose so,’ answered Robert, with a shrug. 

And there was no doubt that Sir Harry did think himself master, 
and during the next few days Robert had anything but a pleasant 
office, in refusing, by Lady Blunt’s express desire, to allow her son 
to know the particulars of the late agent’s affairs. Young Harry, 
in fact, openly (to his mother) accused Robert Fletcher of trying to 
cheat them, and was somewhat astonished at his mother’s stern 
reproof. 

‘You do not know what you are speaking of,’ she said ; ‘ this 
young man Robert Fletcher is, I believe, not only trustworthy, but 
honourable in every sense of the word. He is a better man than 
his father, Harry,’ she added, bitterly, ‘base-born though he be.’ 

‘ Credit to the family, eh ? Near relation, isn’t he?’ gibed young 
Plarry. 

‘ You might have spared that, Henry,’ replied the mother; ‘but 
he’s your father’s son — your father’s son,’ and Lady Blunt walked 
to the window of the room, and stood looking out at the still, fair 
scene. 

She had aged greatly this lady during the last few weeks, and 
her thin form had lost somewhat of its erectness, and her cold 
eyes were sunken and dimmed. No one, not even Robert Fletcher, 
knew what she had suffered when she had been forced to speak to 
him and also to her bankers of Mr Chester’s unfortunate affairs. 
In Robert Fletcher she had been obliged to a certain extent to 
confide, but she did not do this at the bank. She allowed them 
there to suppose that the large sums drawn out in her name had 
been lost in some business speculations of her own. She wished 
them to think this, but she probably did not really deceive them, 
for the tragedy that had ended Mr Chester’s career told its own 
tale, following so close as it had done after the visit of one of the 
partners to Weirmere. 

But the stern^ broken-hearted, and unbusiness-like woman ima- 


38 Out of Eden. 

gined that she was thus keeping her solemn promise to the dead. 
She would spare his memory, and to Robert Fletcher alone she 
was forced to admit with quivering lips that irregularities had 
occurred, and that rents and great sums of money were absolutely 
unaccounted for. 

‘ He was not himself,’ she used to repeat, when some startling 
disclosure was obliged to be brought to her notice. It was pitiable 
to Robert Fletcher to see the worn look of pain on her face when 
she spoke of these things. But she was quite loyal to her friend’s 
memory. She spoke to no one on the subject but Robert, and her 
wealth made her new arrangements comparatively easy. 

She could not, however, quite close the lips of her son. This 
young man heard the scandal and gossip that Lady Blunt would 
not allow to be alluded to in her presence, and he asked his mother 
point-blank some very awkward questions. 

‘ How many thousands did old Chester really rob us of, mother.^’ 
he had said to her on the first night of his unexpected, and at the 
time unwelcome, arrival at Weirmere. ‘A fellow has a right to 
know, hasn’t he ?’ 

‘You have no right to say such things,’ answered his mother 
coldly. / 

‘ Oh, that’s all very fine, but considering I have a remarkable 
strong interest in it, I think I have a right ; and as for this new 
man, this Fletcher, what do you know of him ? ’ 

It was then that Lady Blunt had told her son that Robert was 
a ‘better man than his father,’ and a strong feeling of dislike 
somehow rose in the young baronet’s mind to the idea of Robert’s 
appointment to the agency of the estates. 

‘ It was given by your father’s express desire,’ said Lady Blunt. 

‘ Cool of the old boy, I must say, to leave you such a legacy ! If 
I had been you, I would have left his express desire to whistle to 
the winds,’ answered Sir Harry. 

‘ The wishes of the dead are very sacred things, Harry.’ 

Sir Harry shrugged his shoulders. He did not remember his 
father, and he perhaps naturally had not much reverence for his 
memory. It displeased him the thought of this unacknowledged 
relationship, and when in the evening he was introduced to Robert, 
he treated the new agent very superciliously. But after their meeting 
on the following day at Westwood House, young Harry some- 
what relaxed his proud bearing. He wanted, indeed, to talk about 
Florence Chester, for he was not of a reserved nature, and would 
have talked to his groom about her if no one else had been near. 
So he questioned Robert pretty sharply both about the late Mr 
Chester’s affairs and his daughters. But Lady Blunt had already 
warned her agent not to confide in her son. 

Harry is but a boy,’ she said ; ‘ he could not understand, he 
might mistake the — the unfortunate errors into which poor Mr 
Chester’s overwrought brain unhappily brought him. In a year or 
two, with economy, if I am spared, I can replace this money, and 
Harry will be no poorer when he comes into the estates, which, as 
you know, he does not until after my death, for Sir Henry Blunt 


The Yotuig Baronet, 39 

especially left everything to me— his own fortune as well as mine— 
except the two annuities.’ 

Both Robert Fletcher’s brown face and Lady Blunt’s neutral-tinted 
one flushed at the mention of these two annuities. It was the first 
allusion Lady Blunt had made to Robert’s birth, and in a moment 
Robert’s face grew scarlet, and he bit his lips with quick emotion. 

‘ I have decided,’ continued Lady Blunt a minute later, ‘ to allow 
another five hundred a year to Harry, which will make his income 
one thousand, and until he marries I think that is enough. He is 
only here for a few days, and before he returns he will have for- 
gotten all his curiosity — therefore please say nothing to him, Mr 
Fletcher ; it is my particular wish that you do not.’ 

So Robert only gave very brief answers to Sir Harry’s ‘curiosity,’ 
and Sir Harry did not love him any better for doing so. But the 
additional five hundred a year his mother was about to allow him 
was rather a sop. 

‘The old woman is very rich, isn’t she.?’ he said to Robert. 
‘ That confounded will of my father’s is a nice document, I must 
say ! Fancy a fellow coming into a title on five hundred a year — 
it’s too absurd ! ’ 

‘ The late Sir Henry Blunt came into his title on less, I believe,’ 
answered Robert, with a somewhat grim smile. ‘ Your father was 
a ruined man. Sir Harry, when he married Lady Blunt.’ 

‘ But some old fellow left him a fortune, didn’t he.?’ 

‘ Yes, but it was left entirely in his own power — not entailed — 
and Sir Henry thought it justice to leave everything to his wife, I 
presume, as but for her fortune he would have been a bankrupt 
for many years.’ 

‘ Humph ! ’ grunted Sir Harry, and he turned away, and Robert 
Fletcher stood for a few moments looking after him, with some 
very mingled feelings struggling in his heart. 

He was not good-looking, this young heir to so many estates, 
and yet he was not absolutely plain. He was short, with fairly 
regular features, and a dull, somewhat mottled skin, the neutral 
tints blurred and reddened in his case by the effects of ‘ merry 
nights ’ and thirsty days. 

‘ He is a stupid young fellow,’ thought Robert, though not un- 
kindly, as he looked after him. But later in the day Robert’s half- 
good-natured, half-contemptuous feelings for Sir Harry again con- 
siderably changed. This alteration was brought about by finding 
him sitting on the garden seat at Westwood House, between the 
two girls Bessie and Florence Chester, apparently very much at 
his ease. 

Had Robert known how long he had sat there he would have 
felt more angry still. He had his gun and his dogs beside him, 
and Robert not unnaturally concluded he had been shooting on 
the hills near Westwood, and had merely strolled into the garden 
on seeing the girls there as he passed. But the truth was that Sir 
Harry had been more than two hours at Westwood House, and he 
had gone there purposely to see Florence Chester. 

He had seen her nearly every day since that first accidental 


40 Out of Eden, 

meeting, when her shining dark eyes had made such an impression 
on his heart, and his mother had also made a communication to 
him at lunch after he had seen Robert, which made him parti- 
cularly anxious to see Florence. 

Lady Blunt had in fact informed her son, not without consider- 
able hesitation of manner, that she intended to offer her old friend 
Mr Chester’s daughters a home at the Hall. 

She expected some opposition to her proposal from Harry, but 
to her surprise the young man said nothing. 

‘ He asked me to do this, Harry, in his last letter,’ continued 
Lady Blunt, casting down her eyes, ‘ otherwise I think it scarcely 
desirable ; but one of them at least will not, I think, remain with 
me— they tell me, and I have good reason to know also that Mr 
Fletcher will propose for Florence, the second girl, and I consider 
it will be a very suitable match for them both.’ 

Sir Harry looked quickly up at his mother on hearing this, gave 
a little whistle, and then hastily took up a knife and fork, and began 
carving the ham before him very much at random. 

‘Have you seen her this time?’ said Lady Blunt. ‘ Her poor 
father and some others have thought her pretty, but I do not — I do 
not admire her style.’ 

‘ She’s got dark eyes, hasn’t she ?’ said Sir Harry, going on with 
his carving. 

‘Yes — oh, she is not pretty ; but it’s a charge to have two girls 
to look after, and I shall be very glad indeed when Mr Fletcher 
marries her.’ 

‘ Then are they engaged ? ’ asked Sir Harry. 

‘No, not that I know of — indeed, I am sure they are not, but 
there is no doubt she will be only too glad to take him ; I am very 
pleased — her poor father, I am sure, would be pleased.’ 

Sir Harry said nothing more. He finished his lunch, and he 
called for his dogs, and taking his gun he left the Hall, and then 
he went straight up to Westwood House. Mary Fletcher had left 
the day before, and returned to her brother’s cottage by the lake 
side ; and Bessie and Florence Chester were thus alone. They 
had just finished their early mid-day meal when they saw Sir 
Harry and his dogs enter the garden. 

‘ Here is that young man again,’ said Bessie Chester, and she 
gave a little laugh, and looked at Florence. 

Bessie Chester was a plain, colourless likeness of her attractive 
younger sister. Lady Blunt used to declare the sisters were ex- 
tremely like each other, and to some extent they were. But the 
difference between them was really very great. It was the difference 
between a perfect blossom on the same plant and an imperfect one. 
There was a family resemblance, but there was no beauty whatever 
in Bessie’s ordinary face. 

‘ That young man again !’ she said, in her common -place way, 
and laughed, and Florence also laughed, while Sir Harry was 
ringing at the hall-door bell. 

They both went and met him as he was coming in, and received 
him in a friendly fashion. 


The Young Baronet, 41 

‘ It’s a jolly day, isn’t it?’ said Sir Harry. ‘ Come out, won’t you, 
and let us sit in the garden ? ’ 

The sisters went with him outside, and as they stood together a 
moment on the grass in front. Sir Harry half whispered a sentence 
into Florence’s ear. 

‘ I say,’ he said, ‘ come along with me for a minute, I’ve got 
something to say to you.’ 

Bessie heard the half whisper and discreetly turned away her 
head, and then stooped down and began arranging one of her 
flower-beds, while Sir Harry and Florence strolled away in an 
opposite direction. 

‘ What do you think the old woman has been saying to me ? ’ 
began Sir Harry. 

‘ Lady Blunt ?’ asked Florence, with a sudden accession of colour. 

‘ Yes, my mother. Well, to begin with, she has been telling me 
that she is going to ask you to live at the Hall — you and your 
sister. Your father, it seems, asked my mother to do this in his 
last letter — ’ 

He was interrupted here by a kind of half-cry from Florence, and 
looking quickly at her, he saw that she had become greatly agitated. 

‘ I — I should not have said that,’ he hastily added. ‘ I beg your 
pardon. Miss Florence ; please forgive me ! ’ 

‘ Go on,’ said Florence, in a low tone. ‘ What else did he say 
in his last letter ? ’ 

‘ Oh, she didn’t tell me ; she’s a close one, my mother. All she 
said was — well, just what I’ve told you ; but she added something 
— well, that made me stare a bit.’ 

* What was it ? ’ 

‘ That you are going to marry, or that she expects you will marry 
Mr Fletcher. Now, that’s what I want to know the truth about ?’ 

‘ It is not true,’ said Florence, with sudden vehemence. ‘ How 
dare Lady Blunt say such a thing — it is utterly untrue ! ’ 

‘Thought so,’ said Sir Harry, with satisfaction. ‘ Didn’t believe 
you would marry a fellow like that ; but I wanted to know — and 
now, I say, you’ll come and live at the Hall, won’t you ?’ 

‘No, I won’t,’ answered Florence; ‘no, no, I won’t !’ 

‘ Oh ! yes, but do,’ urged the young man, ‘ and you and I will 
have no end of fun ; we’ll row together, and fish — and if the old 
lady makes a row — well, we needn’t mind her much,’ added Sir 
Harry, with a significant laugh. 

But Florence gave no responding smile. She was thinking of 
her father, and scarcely heard what the young man said. 

She stood there ‘beautiful as a picture,’ thought Sir Harry, 
looking admiringly at the girl, with the sun shining down on her 
uncovered dark hair and on her variable face, through which her 
thoughts seemed to pass like the wind quivering through the aspen 
leaves. You saw, as it were, the unseen on that ever-changing 
countenance, and even Sir Harry’s dim soul read at this moment 
that she was not thinking of him but of her dead father. 

‘ I don’t like that Fletcher ; do you ? ’ presently said Sir Harry, 
anxious to break the melancholy spell. 


42 Out of Eden, 

Then, with a sigh and an effort, Florence recalled herself. 

‘ Yes,’ she said, still somewhat absently. ‘ Oh, yes, I like him ; 
my poor father used to like him, and his sister was so good to me. 
Oh ! so good, when I was very ill.’ 

‘ She nursed you, and that kind of thing, didn’t she ? ’ 

‘Yes, and was so very kind till I got well ; but it’s the strangest 
thing, and she is so queer, she wanted to go away as soon as ever 
I could go out, and she grew quite different — not gentle and tender, 
almost as she used to be. I don’t think she is happy,’ added Flor- 
ence, looking at Sir Harry, whose nature was too unsympathetic 
to quite follow Florence’s meaning. 

‘ Can’t say,’ was his practical reply. ‘ But she’s handsome, don’t 
you think ? ’ 

‘ Oh, she’s lovely ! ’ answered Florence, with genuine admiration. 

‘ Sometimes, when I was ill, I used to watch her when she was 
asleep, and I never saw such a beautiful face or such a complexion. 
And then, when she used to wake up to do anything for me, she had 
such a sweet, sweet look ; but I never could tell how it was, she 
used to freeze again, and throw back one’s love, as it were. But if 
I were a young man I would be desperately in love with Mary 
Fletcher,’ added Florence, with a little laugh. 

‘ I wouldn’t then — she’s too what you call a fine woman for my 
taste — I like something different — what shall I say, Miss Flo 1 but 
you know very well — trust a woman for that — but I like a slender, 
graceful little form, and a pair of great, dark eyes — like somebody’s.’ 
And young Harry finished with a gasp, to express his meaning, 
while a dull, dusky red spread over his face. 

‘ Of course,’ answered Florence lightly ; ‘ but let us go back to 
Bessie. I get tired when I stand ; you see, I am weak still.’ 

So the three young people were sitting together on the garden 
seat in front of the house when Robert Fletcher made his appear- 
ance at Westwood. 

‘What a bore ! ’ said Sir Harry, as soon as he saw him. Bessie 
Chester laughed, and gave a look at Florence to express to her 
sister that she understood his meaning. 

Robert, it must be admitted, did not look very pleasant as he 
approached the young trio sitting on the garden seat. He thought 
Sir Harry had no business there, and that it was a very good thing 
that the young baronet was leaving Weirmere on the following day. 

‘ Have you had good sport?’ he said, after he had spoken to the 
two sisters, looking at Sir Harry. 

‘ Oh, fair,’ answered the young man carelessly, and he rose from 
the seat ; but he did not leave the garden, and after a few more 
words Robert went into the house to go on with his weary task 
among Mr Chester’s papers. 

But he could not somehow give his mind to the late agent’s 
muddled accounts. He was thinking of the dark-eyed girl in the 
garden and the insolent boy by her side. He could not see the 
garden from the back room where he was sitting, and so presently 
he went to the dining-room, which looked out on the front. Bessie 
had disappeared j but close to one of the flower-beds, bending over 


A New Home, - 43 

it, was Florence Chester and Harry Blunt. The young man seemed 
urging Florence to give him a flower, and the girl was coying with 
one she held in her hand. Robert, of course, could not hear what 
they said ; but the little scene seemed to tell its own tale. 

‘ Come, give it to a fellow to take away with him,’ Sir Harry was 
saying. ‘ Come, Miss Flo, do.’ And he made a snatch at the 
crimson carnation Florence held in her hand. 

Florence laughed and threw the flower on the ground, and Sir 
Harry stooped down and put it in his button-hole. 

‘ I’ll keep it till I come back,’ he said, ‘ and then you must give 
me something better. Well, good-bye for the present, Miss Flo ; 
and you’ll go to the Hall, won’t you, and do the civil to the old 
woman ? Promise me, now ! ’ and he caught her hand ; and Robert, 
who was watching, felt a burning, angry, jealous pang rush into 
his heart. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A NEW HOME. 

The sisters at Westwood were somewhat prepared by this visit of 
Sir Harry’s for a communication which they received on the fol- 
lowing day from Lady Blunt. Looking grave, as usual, Dr Hum- 
phrey arrived at the house, and after a few inquiries about Florence’s 
health, he told them he had got something very serious to say to 
them. 

‘ You know I’m an old friend,’ he began, ‘ and Lady Blunt has 
chosen me to make your poor father’s last wishes known to you. 
When he died, you remember, he left a sealed letter for Lady 
Blunt.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Bessie ; but Florence’s quivering lips could frame no 
words. 

‘ I grieve to pain you, Florence,’ continued Dr Humphrey gently, 
‘ but Lady Blunt wishes you to know the contents of that letter, 
believing that his last wishes will be sacred to you as to her. In 
this letter, then, your father asked Lady Blunt to take charge of 
you both, and Lady Blunt is willing and anxious to do this ; in fact, 
she has sent me to explain to you — to offer you a home with her at 
the Hall, and I am very glad that she has done so.’ 

‘But what else was in that letter.?’ asked Florence passionately. 
‘ Dr Humphrey, why did poor father do what he did ? Why did 
he leave his children, and ask her to take charge of them, unless 
there was something else.?’ 

‘ Florence,’ answered Dr Humphrey gravely, and he took her 
trembling hand, ‘ I am very, very sorry to pain you, but your poor 
father’s affairs were so unfortunately entangled, that they alone 
account for the — sad end.’ 

‘ Lady Blunt had something to do with it ; I am sure, quite sure 
she had something to do with it 1 ’ repeated Florence, deeply 
agitated 


44 Out of Eden. 

‘You must not blame Lady Blunt, Florence,* said Dr Humphrey. 

‘ She has acted with the greatest regard, the greatest forbearance 
to—’ 

‘ Forbearance !’ cried Florence. 

‘ The word slipped out unawares, and you must forgive it. But, 
indeed. Lady Blunt means most kindly to you, and to your father’s 
memory, Florence.’ 

‘ I cannot understand it,’ said Florence, and she began walking 
excitedly up and down the room. ‘ What does it all mean ? Has 
poor father left no money, or what is it ?’ 

‘ Unfortunately, he has left no money,’ said Dr Humphrey, cast- 
ing down his eyes. 

There was a few moments’ silence in the room after this, and 
then Bessie spoke. 

‘ I am sure Lady Blunt means kindly. Dr Humphrey,’ she said. 
‘ She has always been kind, but would you mind me speaking to 
Florence alone for a few minutes ’ 

‘ Please do so,’ answered Dr Humphrey ; ‘ it is but natural that 
two sisters should wish to consult with each other before accepting 
such a serious offer as this. But if my advice has any force with 
you both, I most earnestly advise you to accept it. It is but kind- 
ness to tell you that you are not in a position to keep a home for 
yourselves — and as for going out into the world — well, it’s folly. 
Florence here is not strong enough,’ smiled the doctor, ‘ and will 
be getting married, too, some fine morning soon, I expect, so I am 
sure that for the present you had best decide to stay with Lady 
Blunt ; but I’ll leave you to talk it over together, and go and have 
a chat with Robert Fletcher, whom I hear is in the house.’ 

After the doctor had left them, Bessie Chester went up to her 
sister, and put her hand through her arm. 

‘ Don’t be a fool, Flo,’ she said. ‘ You hear what the doctor 
says. We have no money, and you may as well try to fly as to 
live without it ; and, besides, we needn’t tell everyone, but I am 
almost certain young Harry means to propose for you, and then 
you’ll be independent of my lady.’ 

‘ She killed poor father ! ’ said Florence ; ‘ don’t tell me she did 
not — I know she did — perhaps ; but what is the use of talking of it 
— of that miserable day ? But whenever I see her, if I go to live 
with her, whatever happens, I shall always feel she murdered 
father.’ 

‘ Then you have a fine revenge in your own hands,’ said her 
sister. ‘ She is proud as Lucifer, and it will kill her almost when 
she finds out young Harry is in love with you. Don’t be a fool, 
Flo ; let us accept her offer, and the day will come — you trust me 
now — when you will have it in your power to deal her the bitterest 
blow she ever got.* 


Half-an-hour later, after this conversation between the sisters, 
Bessie Chester rapped at the study-door, where Dr Humphrey and 
Robert Fletcher were enjoying a quiet smoke. 

‘I want to speak to you a moment. Dr Humphrey,* said 


A New Home, 


45 

Bessie, putting in her head, and smiling at the two men ; and the 
doctor jumped out of his arm-chair and came to her in the door- 
way. 

‘ Florence has given her consent at last,’ she half whispered, 

‘ after no end of trouble — but she will go ; she has promised to go, 
so will you tell Lady Blunt we gratefully accept her offer.’ 

‘It is the very best thing you can do,’ answered the doctor. 

‘ Yes, the very best.’ 

‘ If you think so, I am sure it must be,’ said Bessie, modestly 
casting down her eyes. ‘ I told Florence that your advice was sure 
to be good.’ 

‘ Thank you,’ laughed the doctor, turning round to Robert, who 
had been anxiously trying to hear this conversation. ‘Well, 
Fletcher,’ continued the doctor, addressing him, ‘it need be no 
secret. Miss Bessie has come to tell me that these young ladies 
have decided to accept Lady Blunt’s offer, and I am sure it is the 
very best thing they can do.’ 

‘ I hope so,’ said Robert Fletcher thoughtfully, and the next 
moment he gave a somewhat restless sigh. 

After this it was all settled ; but there are many things to do and 
think of in leaving an old home and going to a new one. This was 
especially the case with the Chesters. Their home was to be 
broken up, and to Bessie Chester, Robert Fletcher was forced to 
be more confidential about their affairs than he dared be, or even 
thought of being, to Florence. But bills were to be paid — house- 
hold bills — and Robert produced the money necessary to pay them, 
without even telling Bessie that it all came out of his own pocket. 
The furniture had also to be left behind. There were creditors 
who insisted on a public sale of Mr Chester’s effects, though 
eventually this did not take place. Lady Blunt and Robert Fletcher 
having made arrangements to buy the whole. 

But all these details were very painful, and on the last night of 
their stay at Westwood House, Florence kept wandering about the 
grounds, recalling to Robert Fletcher’s mind the pathetic lament 
of the Scottish maiden on leaving her old home — 

‘Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 

Again ye’ll flourish fresh and fair ; 

Ye birdies, dumb in withering bowers, 

Again ye’ll charm the vocal air. 

But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm or flowret smile : 

Farewell the bonny banks of Ayr, 

Farewell, farewell ! sweet Ballochmyle ! ’ 

He went up to her and took her hand, and as the evening 
shadows fell around them, and the beloved and familiar objects grew 
dark to the girl’s tear-dimmed sight, the words trembled on Robert 
Fletcher’s lips to ask her to return there— to come back as his wife. 
But as he tried to frame his meaning in the tenderest and most 
considerate terms, Florence herself abruptly spoke. 

‘ I shall never come back here,’ she said, ‘never, never — as long 


46 Out of Eden. 

as I live I will never w'illingly see my dear old home again — my 
father’s home !’ 

Robert did not take these words in the light of a refusal to his 
not very clearly expressed proposal. He took them for what they 
were worth — a girl’s passionate outburst of grief and sorrow on 
leaving the house where she had been born, and where everything 
seemed for the moment sacred to her — hallowed by the memory of 
her father’s love. 

But he felt that this was not the season to say anything more. 
By-and-by, invisible, but busy time^ would come to his aid, he 
thought. She was of variable mood, and though the dark spirit 
was now upon her, the day would come for different and brighter 
thoughts. So he spoke soothing words to her, but Florence 
scarcely listened. She was glad when he went away, and when all 
the rest of the household were in bed, she crept down to the room 
where her father had spent his last miserable hours, and kneeling 
down laid her head upon the bed from which his spirit had passed 
in its bitter agony. 

‘Good-bye, father,’ she said ; ‘but I will never forget you — never 
forget who drove you to your death ! ’ 

This fixed idea was always present in her mind. When Lady 
Blunt’s well-appointed carriage arrived the next morning at West- 
wood, and when the weeping black-robed girls entered it, and were 
driven from their old home, Florence was still thinking that Lady 
Blunt had virtually murdered their father. She thought this when 
the grey, gloomy-faced woman in deep mourning also came down 
to the Hall door to welcome them, and offered her pale lips and 
faded cheeks to be kissed by the daughters of her dead friend. 
Bessie Chester responded to this advance with very fair grace, but 
Florence turned her head away, and only gave her cold, trembling 
hand to Lady Blunt, who looked up surprised, and whose faded 
cheek flushed at this marked avoidance. 

From this moment Lady Blunt knew that Florence Chester hated 
her. But she sought no explanation, and, to do her justice, did every- 
thing in her power to make the sisters forget their painful position. 

In the household their arrival was not regarded with satisfaction. 
Appleby, the butler, secretly thought that his lady must have gone 
out of her senses ever to have thought of such a thing, and regarded 
‘poor Chester’s daughters’ in no position to be waited upon by 
him. Jenkins, the lady’s-maid, was especially indignant, as she 
trembled lest her perquisites should be passed on to ‘ two penniless 
girls indeed.’ But neither butler nor lady’s-maid dared to object 
to Lady Blunt’s marked command. 

‘Appleby, help James to carry the young ladies’ luggage upstairs,’ 
she said, perhaps observing that her butler had not yet made any 
offer of assistance. ‘Jenkins, go and help the Miss Chesters to 
unpack and hang their dresses in the wardrobes very carefully, and 
see that they have everything they require.’ 

Jenkins tossed her head, but went to look after the ‘penniless 
girls,’ who easily saw she was a very unwilling attendant. 

Thank you, we require no help,’ said Bessie civilly, but as the 


A New Home. 


47 

woman left the room she had a word to whisper in her sister’s 
ear. 

‘Never mind their impudence,’ she said, ‘the day will come 
when, if you choose, they will all cringe down to you.’ 

But the impulsive, sensitive Florence was wounded to the quick 
by the cold looks of those around them. All her life she had been 
accustomed to love and adulation. She had been her father’s 
pride and darling, and the servants at Westwood had obeyed her 
and run after her with the most willing and smiling alacrity. She 
felt so utterly miserable, therefore, in her new home, that she 
declared to her sister, before the first day was over, that she would 
not and could not stay there. 

‘ Everyone looks down on us,’ she said, bitterly ; ‘ those wretched 
servants are barely civil to us, and every time I look at Lady 
Blunt’s face I shudder. Let us go anywhere, Bessie ; I do not 
care where, but I cannot stay here.’ 

‘ When did young Harry say he would come back to Weirmere ? ’ 
replied the practical elder sister. ‘ And as for going anywhere 
else, my dear, we have no money to do so. I was obliged to take 
money from Robert Fletcher that I really believe was his own, even 
to settle small bills we owed about the village.’ 

‘What ! you owe money to Robert Fletcher?’ cried Florence. 

‘Would you have rather owed it to the butcher?’ said Bessie. 
‘We could not have those people coming here dunning us for 
money, and so Robert asked me to settle everything, and said he 
would get the money, and from what I hear I do not believe that 
poor father left a single penny, so it must have been Robert’s own, 
though he would not say so, for he is very generous.’ 

Bessie said all this quite calmly, but to Florence’s stormier 
nature their whole position was almost too bitter for her to bear. 

‘ I do not wonder poor father shot himself,’ she said, gloomily. 

‘ Don’t talk folly, Flo,’ replied Bessie. ‘ When young Harry 
comes back everything will be quite different.’ 

Young Harry’s return, however, was apparently not looked for 
by his mother until some very distant period. 

‘ My son will not be back this year, I expect,’ said Lady Blunt 
to the sisters during the evening, byway of conversation. ‘ He has 
gone abroad ; he was here for a few days lately, but I think I re- 
member him saying that he saw you once.’ 

‘ Yes, we saw him,’ said Bessie discreetly ; ‘ he is looking very 
well.’ 

But their first day at Weirmere Hall did not end without some 
further news of Sir Harry. Before the evening was over a servant, 
whom they had left in charge of Westwood House, brought down 
to the Hall a small sealed packet which had arrived there by the 
mid-day post after the Chesters had left, and which was addressed 
to Florence. 

It was from a well-known firm of London jewellers, and when 
she opened it she found it contained a morocco case in which was 
enclosed a heart-shaped pendant, set with diamonds, and Sir 
Harry Blunt’s card, on which was written, in his unformed school- 


48 Out of Eden, 

boy hand, ‘ With best compliments, and hoping to see you very 
soon.’ 

‘ I told you so,’ said Bessie, with mild triumph, as she examined 
Sir Harry’s gift ; ‘ they will not snub us long.’ 


CHAPTER VII. 

‘the tender grace of a day that is dead.' 

There lies between looking back and looking forward in life, a 
wide, vast river, and it is the river that divides the old and young. 

Lady Blunt, looking back with her gloomy eyes, was naturally 
a very unsuitable companion for two young girls standing on the 
threshold of an unknown future. True, athwart that threshold had 
fallen the dark shadow of their father’s death. But to the most 
violent grief of youth comes, sooner or later, a bright-robed image 
that we call hope, with healing in its wings. But the face of this 
image was veiled to Lady Blunt’s melancholy heart, and she forgot 
that Bessie and Florence Chester were not as weary and sad as 
she was. 

The dull, stately routine observed in the daily life at Weirmere 
Hall was also especially distasteful to young country girls accus- 
tomed to freedom. Breakfast was at half-past eight punctually, 
lunch at one, and dinner at seven. The Chesters were accus- 
tomed to breakfast when it pleased them to get up, and to have 
lunch when it pleased them to come in. They used to ramble 
on the hills, and row and fish on the lake, had dogs and ponies, 
and pets innumerable, with whom they spent their time, and 
whose rearing and nursing had been their occupation and pastime. 

Imagine these girls, then, seated opposite a prim cold woman 
engaged in endless embroideries, who took up her work after family 
prayers were over and sat at it until the bell rang for lunch, which 
meal consisted of one digestible, but unsavoury, viand, very unlike 
the miscellaneous luxuries that used to crowd the Chesters’ table in 
their poor father’s time. 

After lunch Lady Blunt ordered the carriage and took her young 
visitors for a drive. These drives were as dull and dreary as the 
rest of the day, yet Lady Blunt considered them amusement enough 
for two young people who had just lost their father. 

‘ I would rather go for a walk,’ said Florence on the second day, 
when another stately drive was proposed. 

‘ In that case Jenkins must accompany you, my dear,’ answered 
Lady Blunt. ‘ I cannot have young girls in my charge wandering 
about the country alone.’ 

The idea of Jenkins was even worse than the drive, and so Flor- 
ence sat opposite my lady and Bessie during the next hour, looking 
listlessly on the beautiful scenery around, and wishing she had never 
been over-persuaded to go to Weirmere Hall. 

‘Would you mind, Lady Blunt,’ said Bessie presently, ‘allowing 


^The Tender Grace of a Day that ts dead^ 49 

Florence and I to go some day to call on Miss Fletcher? You 
see she was so very good to us when Florence was so ill, and I am 
afraid if we do not go she will think us ungrateful.’ 

‘ Certainly you ought to go, my dear,’ said Lady Blunt ; ‘ I 
like and respect Mr Fletcher, and wish you to be civil to his 
sister ; and, when I think of it, why not go to-day ? I will drive you 
there, and you can go in for a few minutes and see Miss Fletcher.’ 

‘ Oh ! Lady Blunt, it is giving you so much trouble,’ said Bessie, 
not quite appreciating her ladyship’s condescension. 

‘ Coachman, drive to Mr Fletcher’s,’ called Lady Blunt ; so in 
a short time Lady Blunt’s carriage was standing before Robert 
Fletcher’s door, who came out bare-headed and smiling to receive 
his visitors. 

‘ I have brought these young ladies to call on your sister,’ said 
Lady Blunt. ‘ Is she at home ?’ 

* Yes,’ answered Robert, somewhat uneasily, for he was not quite 
certain what sort of a reception Mary might give Lady Blunt if she 
also went into the cottage. 

But my lady declined to do this. 

‘ No, let the young people have their chat together,’ she said ; and 
so Bessie and Florence were escorted by Robert into Mary’s par- 
lour, who rose up to receive them with a deeper flush than usual on 
her smooth cheeks. 

It was a pretty spot this cottage by the lake side, with the late 
creepers festooning the trellised porch. And the interior was 
fitted up so tastefully that you could scarcely believe that this 
place had gone from sire to son through many generations of 
yeoman proprietors. But Robert had completely re-furnished it, 
and as Mary Fletcher was a very fair artist, they had chosen 
carpets, and curtains, and matting of tints and texture that the 
old Fletchers would anything but admired. As it stood, however, 
Mary’s parlour, with its artistic arrangements, formed a very fit 
setting for the beautiful artistic face of the woman who rose 
to receive the sisters with a certain proud reserve in her man- 
ner, though, perhaps, in her heart she was glad to see again 
the girl whom she had nursed so tenderly, and whose variable face 
she had so often studied when thinking of her brother’s happiness. 

Florence went forward with outstretched hands, and kissed Mary 
almost in spite of herself. 

‘ I would have come to see you before,’ she said, ‘ but you know — 
you know, of course, we have left Westwood ?’ 

‘Yes,’ answered Mary, with some hesitation, ‘I heard so — and 
you are at the Hall now ?’ 

Florence shrugged her shoulders. 

‘ They made me go,’ she said. 

‘Well, I hope you will like it,’ said Mary. 

Florence shook her head. 

‘ No, I never shall,’ she replied, candidly, and Mary felt somewhat 
embarrassed ; but Bessie came to her aid and began admiring the 
room, which she designated as ‘ sweetly-pretty.’ 

‘ And is this a portrait of your brother?’ continued Bessie, taking 

D 


50 Out of Eden, 

a photograph of Robert from the mantelpiece. ‘What a very 
fine-looking man he is ! ’ 

Mary laughed. 

‘I am glad you think so/ she said; ‘he is certainly not bad-looking/ 

‘ Oh, he is handsome/ said Bessie, still gazing approvingly at 
Robert’s features. 

Bessie had indeed confided to her sister that she thought Robert 
Fletcher was ‘worth looking after.’ Bessie Chester certainly 
took a very sensible view of things, and was not led away by any 
‘nonsense.’ 

In the meanwhile Robert Fletcher was talking outside to Lady 
Blunt, who was exerting herself to be (for her) very gracious to him. 

‘ I shall be pleased to see you any time up at the Hall, Mr 
Fletcher/ she was saying ; ‘ now when I have young people with 
me it will be different.’ 

‘ You are very kind. Lady Blunt,’ answered Robert, most gratefully. 

‘Will you dine with us this evening.?’ continued Lady Blunt, and 
Robert felt inclined to stoop down and kiss the black-gloved hand 
that was twitching nervously on the carriage-door. 

‘ I shall be delighted to do so/ said Robert. 

‘ And your sister — will she come with you ? ’ asked Lady Blunt. 

‘ I shall be pleased if she will do so — I wish to thank her personally 
for her kindness to — poor Mr Chester’s daughters.’ 

‘ I will ask her — it is very good of you. Lady Blunt — but I never can 
persuade Mary to go anywhere/ said Robert, casting down his eyes. 

‘ Well, if she will come I shall be glad ; and now will you tell my 
young people it is time we were starting again ; and kindly, also, 
give my message to your sister.’ 

So Robert returned to Mary’s parlour, and told Florence that 
Lady Blunt thought she must be going, and then he gave her mes- 
sage to Mary. 

‘ I am going there to dine this evening, Mary,’ he said, ‘ and Lady 
Blunt told me to tell you how very pleased she will be if you go also.’ 

‘ No, certainly not,’ said Mary, turning suddenly scarlet. 

‘ Oh, do come, dear Mary/ urged Florence, in her pretty way ; 

‘ you do not know what a treat it will be to us ; it’s so horribly dull 
up there/ and Florence gave a little comical shrug. 

_ ‘No/ said Mary, ‘ I cannot go ; but if you like to come here some- 
times, Robert, I am sure, will be very pleased to see you.’ 

‘And won’t Mary.?’ smiled Florence. 

‘Of course she will/ said Robert heartily. ‘So, Molly, I’ll give 
a polite message to my lady, and tell her you are unfortunately 
engaged.’ 

‘ Say I go nowhere,’ said Mary proudly, but with quivering lips. 

‘Very well,’ said Robert. ‘And now, young ladies, are you 
ready.?’ 

The two girls followed Robert to the carriage, and Robert told 
Lady Blunt that his sister hoped she would excuse her, as she went 
nowhere. 

‘ I am sorry/ said Lady Blunt, and that was all. Perhaps she 
understood something of the pride that dictated the conduct of 


^The Tender Grace of a Day that is dead' 51 

this nameless girl, and thought no worse of her for refusing her 
invitation. 

Robert’s presence made this second dinner at Weirmere Hall 
much more lively than the first. He brought with him a new 
element somehow — an element of life, and strength, and happiness, 
and even Lady Blunt looked less depressed and gloomy while he 
was there. And again and again during dinner she glanced at 
Florence. The day before, when she had sat opposite to her she 
had thought how strange it was that this girl’s poor father should 
have thought her so handsome. Now, looking at Florence smiling, 
and with her great eyes shining with their peculiarly brilliant, 
sparkling light, she admitted there was some justice in Mr Chester’s 
opinion, and she felt glad and thankful that Robert Fletcher’s de- 
votion was so very evident. 

On Florence’s slender throat glittered a diamond pendant. Both 
Lady Blunt and Robert noticed this ornament ; Lady Blunt with a 
sigh, and perhaps a little shake of her head, concluded that ‘poor 
Mr Chester,’ in his proud, fond love for his favourite daughter, had 
purchased her this expensive trinket ; ‘so unsuitable,’ sighed Lady 
Blunt ; and Robert Fletcher too concluded the diamond heart had 
been her father’s gift. 

But Florence had fastened it round her throat, and wore it under 
my lady’s eyes, with a sort of bitter pleasure in knowing how angry 
Lady Blunt would be if she knew the truth. She smiled too on 
Robert Fletcher, and made his heart beat and his pulse throb, 
also for the bitter pleasure of deceiving Lady Blunt. She knew 
quite well why Robert was asked to dinner, and what he was in- 
tended to do. He was to marry her, and so free Lady Blunt from 
a wearisome burden. 

Lady Blunt’s narrow mind could not have conceived such 
thoughts as these entering the heart of a girl. She had lived to 
find the simple romance and faith of her own youth all a dream, 
but still she clung to the old ideas, and expected that a young 
creature like Florence would be only too glad to have a handsome 
lover, and would love and marry him without caring much what 
his worldly estate might be. 

But Florence had been brought up in a different school. Mr 
Chester was a worldly man, though his last act was strangely at 
variance with the creed of his life. He had laughed at and with 
his handsome Flo many a time about the evident devotion of the 
honest, straightforward young man, who did not make much secret 
of his love ; and Mr Chester had even gone so far as to openly 
regret to his daughter the misfortune of Robert Fletcher’s birth. 

‘If he’d only been the baronet, now, Flo, he would have done,’ 
he once said. ‘ As it is, though he’s a nice fellow, he’s not good 
enough for you. We must look up little Hal when he comes down.’ 

And Mr Chester laughed. 

‘ Little Hal ’ meant Sir Harry from Mr Chester’s lips, and no 
doubt vague thoughts had sometimes flashed through Mr Chester’s 
busy brain that it was not unlikely that the young baronet might 
fall in love with his handsome girl. We have seen how all his 


52 Out of Eden, 

schemes and his ambition ended in disastrous defeat. But his last 
thoughts had been for his daughters, and his last appeal to Lady 
Blunt was made for their sakes. Florence, sitting there, smiling, 
with her diamond pendant on her slender throat, had not forgotten 
her father’s words, — ‘Robert Fletcher was a nice fellow, but he 
would not do.’ 

But Robert, looking into the shining eyes that had stolen his 
heart, felt elated with his love and happiness. Lady Blunt’s kind- 
ness had removed one source of anxiety, lest she should object to 
his suit, and he had a fair income now, and could offer the girl he 
loved a comfortable home. 

Thus thought the young man, and after they returned to the 
drawing-room, and tea was over, he asked Florence in a half- 
whisper if she would go out on the terrace, in front of the house, 

‘ to see the moon shining on the lake.’ 

Florence laughed and went out. It was one of those moonlight 
nights which fill our hearts at once with awe, wonder, and delight. 
There was a golden roadway on the broad, still water that lay be- 
neath the green hill on which stood Weirmere Hall ; there were 
gleams on the dark trees, and weird shadows lying on the fells. 
And in the blue, boundless, star-hung sky there was a strange 
luminous light and an indescribable beauty, glory, and repose. 

Florence stood silent and awed, looking upwards. 

‘ It’s glorious, isn’t it?’ said Robert Fletcher. 

A night moth flitted by them as he spoke, and softly struck 
Florence on the cheek with its dusty wing, and with a little cry she 
started back. 

‘ What is the matter ? ’ said Robert, and he turned round and took 
her hand. 

‘Only a late reveller winging its homeward way, I suppose,’ 
answered Florence, smiling ; and she took her hand softly from 
Robert’s and began rubbing her smooth cheek. 

‘Why did you take away your hand — did it hurt you?’ said 
Robert, bending nearer, and for a moment the girl stood there with 
downcast eyes, while Robert again caught her hand. 

‘ It’s like heaven here to-night,’ said Robert, in the fulness of his 
content ; ‘or, perhaps, Eden,’ he added, with a tender smile. 

‘ Ah, but we’re out of Eden,’ answered Florence, with a short 
laugh and a sudden change of manner, and she pulled her hand 
from Robert’s as she spoke. ‘We live now among the thorns and 
briars of the wilderness ] ’ And she gave a little mocking nod of 
her head at the distant figure of Lady Blunt, visible through the 
glass of the drawing-room windows. 

Robert laughed, too, at her quaint words. 

‘ So Lady Blunt is your especial thorn still, Florence ? ’ he said. 

‘ Yes, my especial thorn,’ she answered, ‘ so now I must go back 
to her prickly shelter ! ’ And before Robert had time to remon- 
strate Florence was gone. 

And the glory of the sky and of the lovely scene around seemed 
suddenly to fade to the young man as she went. A blank, cold 
feeling fell on his heart. 


^The Tender Grace of a Day that is deadJ 53 

‘She cannot love me/ he thought; ‘if she had loved me she 
would have stayed.’ 

Yet, when Robert returned to the drawing-room, Florence smiled 
upon him as brightly as ever. 

‘ 1 wish you Would row us on the lake sometimes, Mr Fletcher/ 
she said, and Robert was only too glad to promise to do so. 

‘ ril take great care of them, Lady Blunt/ he said, and Lady 
Blunt (whose prim ideas had received a little shock at a young 
woman asking a young man a favour in such a cool manner) now 
smiled her chill, sad smile. 

‘ I think I can trust you/ she said ; and so before Robert left the 
Hall it was settled that he was to take the sisters out upon the lake 
on the following morning. 

And this excursion was but one of many. If the sun shone and 
the sky was blue, Robert was almost sure to make his appearance 
some time during the day to know if ‘the Miss Chesters would like 
a row ?’ But when the drizzling mist drifted over the hills, or the 
rain was pouring down, Robert used to ride to look after the out- 
lying farms belonging to the estate, throwing into his new work 
much of the brightness and energy of his nature, and feeling a great 
underlying current of joy in the thought that he was working for her. 

Yet there were moments like the one when she left him on the 
terrace in the moonlight, when he felt desponding and uncertain 
enough. He was ready at any time to ask Florence to be his wife, 
but somehow he never seemed to have the opportunity of doing so. 
She was captivating, she was charming, but if he ever ventured on 
any tender word, she always answered it with a jesting one. Yet 
in her dark eyes there were moments when he fancied he read a 
different story, when he thought she looked as if she loved him, 
and these bright moments made up by their sunshine for hours of 
despondency and gloom. 

At last a day came in the late autumn, a- day when, though the 
leaves were of russet hue, and the nuts ripe on the hills, the sky 
was blue and cloudless, and the waters of Weirmere a great, still, 
blue mirror for the sky. The cut corn was cleared from the valleys, 
and the robin already sang his cheery note close to the doorways, 
for winter was near, and yet for a while Nature paused, and the 
glory and brightness of the summer time lingered round the fast- 
closing days. 

Years after Robert remembered the subtle scent of the faded 
woods as he walked by Florence’s side over the drooping bracken, 
and the moist moss, strewn with the yellow leaves. He was very 
happy. It was one of the golden moments of life, which shine for 
us out of the daily, dull routine, and live for us in the silent 
chambers of our memory, until overshadowed by the dull touch of age. 

They had been with each other the whole afternoon, for Lady 
Blunt had given her consent for the sisters to have tea with Mary 
Fletcher at the cottage, and Robert had rowed them down the lake, 
and they had wandered about the woods more than an hour, re- 
turning to Mary’s parlour for tea. 

Mary had declined to walk with her brother and Bessie and 


54 * Out of Eden, 

Florence, but she was standing beneath the cottage porch, waiting 
to receive them when they returned. 

‘A visitor has arrived to see you, Robert,’ she said. ‘Dr 
Humphrey.’ 

‘ Oh, Humphrey 1 I am very glad,’ answered Robert, and he 
walked into the parlour, where he found the doctor. 

‘Been gathering brambles.?’ said the doctor smilingly. 

Robert shook his head and laughed. He had a sprig of heather 
in his coat that Florence had given him, and there was a flush on 
his brown cheeks and gladness in his eyes. 

‘ Whatever you have been doing it seems to suit you,’ said the 
doctor, half cynically, eyeing Rofct’s healthy, happy face with 
some envy. 

He did not look particularly happy himself, in spite of the philo- 
sophic calmness which he considered he had attained. The truth 
was he admired Mary Fletcher a great deal more than was com- 
patible with that philosophic calmness. He held a man to be a 
fool who allowed himself to think too much of, or go too often near, 
a woman whom he did not intend to marry. He did not intend 
to marry Mary, and yet his old mare Jenny very frequently took 
her jog-trot way down the side of the lake on which stood Robert 
Fletcher’s cottage, instead of the opposite one on which was situ- 
ated Jenny’s own stable at the doctor’s house. Perhaps the memory 
of the thistle and the mouthful of fresh grass, given in the moon- 
light, tempted Jenny, for the doctor declared, when he was not 
thinking, that Jenny always took the wrong turn, and found her 
way somehow to Miss Fletcher. 

Be this as it may, Jenny had on this bright particular October 
day, either by her own will or the doctors, arrived at Robert’s 
cottage during the afternoon, and the doctor having dismounted, 
found Mary directing her rosy-cheeked country damsel to prepare 
the table in the parlour for afternoon tea, in expectation of Bessie 
and Florence Chester’s return. 

‘ Robert will be pleased if you will stay,’ said Mary, who looked 
even handsomer than usual, and so the doctor yielded to his secret 
inclination, and sat in the parlour pretending to read the news- 
papers, but really watching the beautiful, graceful woman, who was 
moving about the parlour, and directing her home-made cakes to 
be placed here and there on the table. 

As Dr Arthur Humphrey kept watching Mary Fletcher, he sud- 
denly began to wonder why he should all his life remain a bachelor, 
and why a man should allow a cruel misfortune, and no fault of 
her own, to stand between himself and hia love. 

‘ She is good, she is noble,’ he thought ; ‘ but — my mother.’ 

A vision rose before him then— a faded, little, wasted vision— 
who, living in these Cumbrian wilds, yet lived for the narrow world 
around, and who, if she had been a denizen of some great city, 
would have toiled and struggled to take an upper place in its 
society, as hard as the poor workwoman has to struggle and toil 
for daily bread. This vision— a wasted, feeble old woman — was 
Arthur Humphrey’s mother. 


^The Tender Grace of a Day that is dead* 55 

She prided herself, this lady, on her birth. Her father had been 
a post-captain in the navy in the days when William the Fourth 
was king, and she had married in some weak hour (she told her 
son) a country parson. But she had never forgot the glorious early 
days at Portsmouth, and the great ships sailing in, and the royal 
smiles. She might be buried alive in the Cumbrian hills, but she 
still remembered what she had been. She held her white head 
very high, and would regulate her bows and her morning calls with 
discrimination due to the receiver’s rank. The existence of Mary 
Fletcher and her brother she absolutely ignored. They had no 
social status, and Mrs Humphrey therefore knew nothing about them. 

With Mrs Humphrey lived a maiden sister called Miss Annie 
Tomkins. The late post-captain, the father of these ladies, had 
been a very great man, at all events after his death, but he had been 
named Tomkins. It was an unmerited misfortune his daughters 
felt, and perhaps they held their heads even higher, because they 
felt bound to assert the gentility of the name. 

Sitting, looking intently over the edge of his newspaper at beauti- 
ful Mary Fletcher, Dr Arthur Humphrey was nevertheless think- 
ing of the two faded old ladies at home. They were both almost 
entirely dependent on him, for neither the parson nor the post- 
captain had left much behind, and yet these two old women had 
exercised a considerable influence over a thoughtful, clever man. 

‘ What folly it is !’ thought Arthur Humphrey, now remembering 
all the poor little shams, the wearisome talks of by-gone balls and 
parties, whose givers were in their tombs, in which these ladies yet 
constantly indulged. 

They, who were so old, to whom the world in truth could be 
nothing, yet lived for the w'orld’s scant memory ! And Arthur 
Humphrey, gazing on what at least was real, tangible, and might 
be won, not unnaturally reflected on his own folly and theirs. 

But his thoughts were interrupted by Robert — Robert looking 
brown, happy, and handsome, and with the girl he loved. No 
wonder Arthur Humphrey felt a little envious, and sipped his tea 
almost in silence, while the others laughed, jested, and smiled 
around him. 

So enjoyable was Mary’s afternoon tea that the early closing day 
was fading into darkness before any of them remembered how late 
it was. It was the prudent Bessie who first made this discovery. 

‘ I am afraid Lady Blunt would be annoyed if we were late for 
dinner,’ she said, smiling at Robert and then at Dr Humphrey, 
and Robert took the hint and started to his feet. 

‘ I can row you up in half-an-hour,’ he said, glancing at his watch. 
‘You’ll come, too, Humphrey?’ 

No ; the doctor thought he could not manage to go. 

‘ I have a patient to see,’ he said, rather feebly ; and so, after 
assisting the sisters into Robert’s boat, and helping to start her. Dr 
Humphrey pensively, and with his head on his breast, returned to 
Mary’s cottage for his hat. 

In the meantime Robert was rowing the sisters up the lake 
with his vigorous stroke. And as they went swiftly through the 


56 Out of Eden, 

darkenin^^ water, and presently came in sight of the Hall on its 
green hiil above the lake, Florence Chester once or twice looked 
rather curiously round. 

Bessie noticed this, and too looked round at the landing-place 
below the Hall, on which was now standing the solitary figure of a 
man. 

‘ There is Appleby waiting for us,’ said Bessie. ‘ Lady Blunt 
must have become uneasy and sent him down.’ 

Upon this Robert turned his head, and glanced at the supposed 
butler. It was not Appleby, he saw in a moment, and Florence 
had also seen this : it was Sir Harry Blunt. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

JEALOUSY 

‘ A LITTLE cloud of the sea, like a man’s hand,’ had risen on the 
horizon, presaging the coming storm. And yet there was nothing 
very surprising in a young man returning suddenly to his mother’s 
home. But this ordinary circumstance seemed to have a remarkable 
effect both on Robert Fletcher and Florence Chester, for Robert 
turned pale and Florence red. 

‘ It’s Sir Harry ; what has sent him back?’ said Robert, briefly 
and sharply. 

‘Yes, I think it is Sir Harry,’ said Florence, and she cast down 
her eyes. 

‘Sir Harry ! Oh! is it really?’ cried Bessie, and she turned 
round again, and then laughed and looked at Florence. 

Over that mobile face were passing two expressions. One — grati- 
fied vanity, lingered there for a second and then died away, to be 
overshadowed by a look of regret. Yes, Florence was sorry that this 
bright, beautiful day was done, and that Sir Harry had come back 
to disturb its close. She had been happy in the fading woods with 
Robert — a girlish excitement and pleasure had brought a glow to 
her cheeks, and deeper beauty to her radiant dark eyes. But it 
was all over now she felt, as Rol^ert rowed on with a less powerful 
stroke somehow than before — all over, and she gave a little sigh as 
the keel of the boat grated on the pebbly shore. 

Sir Harry advanced to help to pull the boat in, and touched his 
cap to the sisters as he did so. 

‘ Good evening,’ he said ; ‘ you people are very late to be out on 
the water.’ 

‘ We had tea with Miss Fletcher,’ said Florence, jumping lightly 
on the shore ; ‘ we have had such a pleasant day — you should have 
been with us. Sir Harry. When did you arrive ? ’ 

‘A couple of hours since,’ answered the young baronet, ‘and it’s 
been confoundedly slow, I can tell you 1 ’ 

‘ Oh ! I’m so sorry 1 ’ laughed Florence. Robert heard the 
laugh, and it sounded very bitter to his ears. 


Jealousy, 57 

He had nodded to Sir Harry, that was all. He h&xj been busy 
securing the boat, and having done this, he now looked up. Flor- 
ence was smiling at Sir Harry, and Sir Harry was looking sulky. 
He had been kept waiting, and he did not like it, and he did not 
like also to find Florence in Robert Fletcher’s company. 

‘ I think I must go now,’ said Robert, not addressing either 
Bessie or Florence in particular ; ‘ as you have found an escort, I 
need not walk up to the Hall with you.’ 

‘ Oh, but you are coming to dinner, are you not ? ’ said Florence *, 

‘ I know Lady Blunt expects you.’ 

‘ Not to-day, I think,’ answered Robert; ‘and as Sir Harry has 
arrived — ’ ^ 

Sir Harry did not speak as Robert paused, perhaps naturally ex- 
pecting that he would add his invitation to his mother’s. Sir 
Harry, in fact, cast down his eyes and did not look over-pleased 
that his mother should expect Robert Fletcher to dinner. 

‘ You must ask Lady Blunt to excuse me to-day,’ now said Robert, 
after a moment’s uncomfortable pause, and he looked at Florence ; 
but Bessie now put in her word. 

‘ Oh ! do come, Mr Fletcher,’ she said; will be so nice 

to have two gentlemen ! ’ 

‘ Not to-day. Miss Bessie,’ said Robert, and he took off his cap, 
and so left the sisters and Sir Harry, who now commenced to walk 
up the hill to the Hall. 

‘ I say, does that fellow often come here .? ’ began Sir Harry, 
glancing at Florence. 

‘ He comes on business,’ said Florence ; ‘you know, of course, 
he was appointed to — ’ 

‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Sir Harry quickly; ‘only it’s funny 
mother asking him to dinner, isn’t it .?’ 

‘ It’s been so dull at the Hall,’ said Florence, with a little shrug 
and a smile. 

There was not much in her speech, but the sulky look passed 
away from Sir Harry’s face as she made it, and he grew (for him) 
quite animated and agreeable. 

‘We must have some fun now,’ he said. ‘I say, do you girls 
shoot ? The sport’s good, the keepers tell me ; and at all events. 
Miss Ho, you must bring the luncheon-basket every day !’ And 
the young fellow laughed. 

Flo also laughed, and thus chatting they reached the Hall. Lady 
Blunt was watching for them out of the drawing-room window, and 
there was care on her brow. She did not understand this unex- 
pected return of her son, and a vague fear kept disturbing her heart. 
She went out on the landing to meet the young people as they went 
upstairs. 

‘ How late you have been,’ she said, addressing Florence ; ‘ and 
where is Mr Fletcher .? He is coming to dinner, is he not ? ’ 

‘No,’ answered Florence; ‘he asked me to tell you — to say, at 
least — he hoped you would excuse him.’ 

‘ But why 1 ’ asked Lady Blunt, very sharply. » 

Again Florence gave a little shrug. 


58 Out of Eden. 

‘ I really cannot tell,’ she said ; and Lady Blunt returned to the 
drawing-room with a deeper cloud than before upon her brow. 

When dinner was announced Sir Harry offered his arm without 
further ceremony to Florence. 

‘ Miss Bessie Chester is the eldest, Harry,’ said Lady Blunt re- 
provingly. 

‘ That don’t matter,’ replied young Harry, with, a laugh, and as 
he led Florence downstairs, he gave a glance of pleasure at the 
pendant sparkling on her throat. 

‘ Thank you for wearing it,’ he whispered, and Lady Blunt, who 
was closely following, saw the glance and nearly heard the whisper. 

And as dinner went on she grew more uneasy still. Sir Harry 
talked to Florence and looked at Florence, and did not seem to 
care very much whether his mother noticed him or not. He was 
indeed a young man who had not much power of disguise, and he 
had never seen Florence look half so beautiful before. He had 
never seen her in the evening for one thing, and the long day in 
the open air had given colour to her oval cheeks. 

She fascinated. him, this bright girl, and made his dull heart beat, 
and his slow pulses throb and tingle. He could not take his eyes 
off her, and his mother saw this and grew more and more uneasy 
and afraid. 

But when they returned to the drawing-room Florence whispered 
a confidential warning word in his ear. 

‘ Don’t sit beside me,’ she said, ‘ I am sure Lady Blunt does not 
like it.’ 

‘ She’ll have to get to like it,’ answered the young man, looking 
at his mother. 

But Florence with a smile rose and left him. She went up to 
Lady Blunt and asked leave to go to bed. 

‘ I am so tired,’ she said, and Lady Blunt held out a cold hand 
and bade her good-night. 

Yet when Lady Blunt was left alone with her son, she was afraid 
to say anything to him. She asked about his journey and tried to 
find out how long he meant to remain at Weirmere, but Harry 
Blunt only gave very vague replies. 

Presently with a yawn he went downstairs to smoke ; and Lady 
Blunt retired to a disturbed and uneasy rest. She awoke the next 
morning later than usual, and going, as was her wont, to the window 
to see what kind of day it was, she saw in the garden below a picture 
that absolutely filled her with dismay. 

In his light tweed suit and tweed cap stood her son Harry, with 
a bouquet of late autumn flowers freshly gathered in his hand ; and 
by his side, smiling and coquetting, was Florence Chester. And as 
Lady Blunt watched them, he tried to put up a heavy crimson 
carnation in her hair. Florence shook her head, and the flower 
fell out, but she stooped down and lifted it up, and fastened it in 
her dress. Then young Harry gave her the bouquet, and Florence 
took it with a smile, and bending over it picked out a flower and 
presented it to the young man, who placed it in his button-hole, 
and kissed the hand that held it towards him. 


Jealousy. 59 

Lady Blunt trembled so violently, after seeing this little scene, 
that she could scarcely dress herself. Then, when Jenkins, her 
maid, came into the room to offer her usual assistance, this woman 
had a word to add to her anxiety. 

* Sir Henry and Miss Florence have had a nice walk already 
in the garden, my lady,’ she said, with a bitter little giggle, ‘ and 
Appleby has orders to have the boat ready for them at ten ; they 
are going out to fish.’ 

‘ Indeed,’ said Lady Blunt coldly, and pale and cold she went 
down to breakfast, where she found Sir Harry standing at the room 
door and calling out directions to Appleby, who was in the hall, 
about packing a luncheon-basket. 

‘ Put in plenty of champagne for the ladies,’ she heard him say, 
with a laugh, and then when he saw his mother he came forward. 

‘ Good morning,’ he said. ‘ Will you come with us, mother ? We 
are going to have a day’s fishing on the lake.’ 

‘ But surely, Henry, you can return to lunch ?’ said Lady Blunt, 
almost harshly. 

‘ But we don’t intend to,’ he answered ; ‘ we’re going to have a 
regular jolly day.’ 

‘And who may “we” be?’ inquired Lady Blunt. 

‘ Flo Chester — the Miss Chesters, and I,’ said Sir Harry. 

* About you I can say nothing, but about these young ladies — 
excuse me, Henry, they are my guests, and I ought to be consulted.’ 

.The young fellow gave a shrug. 

‘ No good, old lady,’ he said ; ‘ if you’ll go, of course — ’ 

But here he paused, for at this moment Florence Chester ap- 
peared descending the staircase, and a moment later entered the 
breakfast-room. 

‘ I hear you have made an arrangement with my son to go on the 
lake?’ said Lady Blunt, at once addressing her, and showing by 
her manner how much she was offended. 

Flo’s face flushed instantly, but she answered coldly and indif- 
ferently, ‘ Sir Harry wished us to go ; but of course, if you object, 
I do not care about it.’ 

‘Nonsense! rubbish!’ said Sir Harry imperiously. ‘If you 
want to go, who has any right to object?’ 

Lady Blunt bit her lips, and her grey complexion absolutely 
paled. She, however, made an effort to hide her deep annoyance. 

‘ Well, we can talk about it after breakfast,’ she said ; ‘ see what 
Bessie says ; but at all events I think I must ask you to return in 
time for lunch.’ 

‘ Of course, we will return in time for lunch. Lady Blunt,’ said 
Florence calmly. ‘Did you suggest we should not?’ she added, 
looking at Sir Harry. 

‘We can see about it,’ said Sir Harry carelessly ; ‘but I suggest 
now, at all events, we get some breakfast before everything is cold.’ 

The breakfast passed over without any further allusion to the 
excursion on the lake. But no sooner was it over than Sir Harry 
began to bustle about, calling for his fishing gear, and giving his 
orders to Appleby, in his boyish, imperious way. 


6o 


Out of Eden, 

‘And I say, old fellow, don’t forget the champagne and the lunch/ 
his mother overheard him say. 

Then Lady Blunt rose and left the room, without vouchsafing 
another word or look at her son. She went up to the drawing- 
room, and from the windows she presently saw Bessie and Flor- 
ence and Sir Harry walking down the hill to the lake, followed by 
Appleby and one of the stable boys, heavily laden with a large 
luncheon-basket and wraps. As they went down they met Robert 
Fletcher coming up towards the house. Lady Blunt saw them 
meet, and watching eagerly she hoped Robert would turn and join 
the party. 

No ; after a few moments’ conversation Robert took off his cap, 
and came on towards the Hall. Lady Blunt saw this, but she did 
not see that Florence never once looked at Robert during the 
short time they stood together, nor could she hear that no hint was 
given, either by Sir Harry or the girls, of asking him to join the 
fishing party. 

But, watching still, Lady Blunt saw Robert’s face as he came up 
the hill, and read there, visible by its darkling signs, that his heart 
was full of that feeling, which the wisest man pronounced to be 
‘ cruel as the grave.’ 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE EFFECT OF AN INSINUATION. 

Some people like fine names, and Mrs Humphrey, the mother of 
Dr Arthur Humphrey, was one of these people. This taste had 
induced her to change the name of the homely substantial dwelling 
where she lived with her son ; the dwelling which had formerly be- 
longed to the doctor to whose practice Arthur Humphrey had suc- 
ceeded, and with whom he had lived as assistant for many years 
previous to the old man’s death. 

This doctor had been a Scotchman, and he had named his house 
after his national emblem, and called his comfortable, cosy dwell- 
ing-place Thistlehill. To Thistlehill, therefore, on his father’s 
death, and when the widow was obliged to vacate the vicarage, Dr 
Humphrey had brought his mother and her maiden sister. Miss 
Annie Tomkins. Mrs Humphrey felt this >vas a terrible come- 
down in the world, and wept as bitter tears at the idea of living 
under a roof from which pills were dispensed as she had wept when 
they carried her meek old vicar away to his long home. 

But there was no help for it. Gentility cannot be supported 
without means. And poor Mrs Humphrey had no means. The 
late Captain Tomkins had left very little, and the late vicar still 
less. Thus Mrs Humphrey was almost entirely dependent on her 
doctor son, though the choice of his profession had been a terrible 
grief to her in former days. He was her only child, and she wished 
him to go into the army or the church. 


The Effect of an Insinuation, 6 1 

* The only professions gentle7nen can go into, Arthur,’ she said 
to her boy. 

To her unspeakable consternation and surprise, young Arthur 
then told her he intended to be a doctor. The lad had formed a 
sort of friendship for the old Scotchman of Thistlehill, who told 
him of birds and beasts and herbs and the wonderful things of 
nature, and Arthur wished to follow his friend’s footsteps. 

‘ I would like to try to do good to men, not to kill them, mother,’ 
he said, with the kindling boyish enthusiasm, which had all passed 
away during the twenty years he had toiled at his profession among 
the hills and dales round Weirmere. But he got his own way. 
He became a doctor, and he lived at Thistlehill till the old man 
died, and then he found that the place, and the business, and four 
thousand pounds were left to him. And so he lived on just as be- 
fore until his father died, and his mother and her sister were left to 
him as a legacy. 

Then he at once offered his mother a home, and Mrs Humphrey 
and Miss Tomkins were obliged to accept it. They came unwill- 
ingly, and to live at a place called Thistlehill was gall and worm- 
wood to the genteel old ladies. Mrs Humphrey begged her son’s 
leave to change the name of his house, and Dr Humphrey told her 
good-naturedly she might call it what she pleased. 

Mrs Humphrey upon this had her black-edged notepaper and her 
black-edged widow’s cards printed with the new name she had 
decided upon for her new residence. 

She had chosen Lansdowne Lodge, as she and her sister often 
told each other they were no doubt distantly connected with the 
noble family of Lansdowne, though the noble family might not 
know it. But the Tomkins crest and the Lansdowne crest were 
the same, and so the ladies were satisfied in their own minds about 
the family kinsmanship, though the direct trace might be lost in 
the abyss of time. 

Dr Arthur laughed and shrugged his shoulders when he heard 
about Lansdowne Lodge, and always headed his own bills and 
letters as before, ‘Thistlehill.’ But if it pleased his mother to 
make a fool of herself he could not help it, he thought, and so he 
let her have her own way, and Mrs Humphrey felt much happier 
in consequence. True, there were vulgar wags in the neighbour- 
hood, who now always called the place Tomkins’ Lodge, and had 
been known to direct letters after this low fashion. But the well- 
bred people around of course did not do this, and Mrs Humphrey 
only cared for the well-bred people. 

Mrs Humphrey knew Lady Blunt well. Weirmere Hall was in 
the late Rev. Arthur Humphrey’s parish, and as Lady Blunt had 
been his principal parishioner, Mrs Humphrey had always paid 
her every attention. She came of an old family also, and this, Mrs 
Humphrey always felt and said, made another bond of union be- 
tween them. But, since Mr Chester’s sudden death, Mrs Humphrey 
had highly disapproved of her friend Lady Blunt’s proceedings. 

In the first place, Mrs Humphrey had heard from young Thirl- 
well (who lived in the house Thistlehill or Lansdowne Lodge) all 


62 Out of Eden, 

the gossip of the terrible shock which her agent’s tragic end had 
given Lady Blunt. Then she had disapproved of Lady Blunt 
going to Mr Chester’s funeral, and yet more disapproved of her 
fainting there, and ‘ making a fool of herself before all the common 
people,’ remarked Mrs Humphrey severely of her friend. 

But this was not all. It was incredible almost to Mrs Hum- 
phrey, the idea of Lady Blunt appointing Robert Fletcher agent to 
the estates in the place of the late Mr Chester ; and yet more 
preposterous her taking the daughters of the dead man to live in 
her house. 

‘ Harm will come of it, you will see,’ she told her sister, Miss 
Tomkins, solemnly. ‘ To mix with your inferiors and treat them 
as equals, always does bring harm. Florence and Bessie Chester 
are the inferiors of Lady Blunt, and she will live to regret she ever 
asked them to Weirmere Hall.’ 

We may be sure that Mrs Humphrey had told her son this also ; 
but Dr Humphrey and his mother took very different views on all 
subjects. And yet to a certain extent she had influenced his con- 
duct ; she had made him feel it was almost impossible he could 
ask the woman whom he so greatly admired to be his wife. 

Yet what folly it was. He knew this as he walked thoughtfully 
back that day to Mary’s parlour after the Chesters and Robert 
Fletcher were gone. He knew this as he looked at Mary’s beautiful 
face, and heard her speak kindly, almost tenderly, of her brother. 

‘ How happy Robert looked to-day,’ she said ; ‘ I never saw him 
look so well.’ 

‘ He is very fond of Miss Flo,’ replied the doctor. 

‘ Yes, very fond,’ said Mary ; ‘ perhaps too fond,’ she added, in 
a lower tone. 

‘ And the young lady ?’ 

‘ I think she likes him. I am almost sure she likes him ; but not 
as he likes her — not as he likes her ! ’ 

Mary repeated these last words with strong emphasis, and they 
awoke a deep feeling in Dr Humphrey’s heart. She understood 
then, this cold, proud girl, something of love and passion, and could 
sympathise with and understand a love that gave too much. 

He was almost silent after this during his visit, and yet how un- 
willing he felt to go. At last he went, after holding Mary’s hand 
for a moment in a warmer, tenderer clasp than he had ever done 
before. As he rode home he was revolving an old problem. 

‘ Is there anything worth making yourself miserable for?’ he 
asked himself ; but, was he miserable without Mary ? This he 
scarcely knew. He was unsettled and restless ; his home was 
wearisome to him, and his work did not somehow fill his mind, or 
command his whole attention, as it formerly had done. But if he 
gave up everything for Mary, would that satisfy him ? He shrugged 
his shoulders ; he thought of his poor mother, and the misery such 
a connection would entail upon her. He knew this to be all folly 
— what could she lose? Yet, there it was I Mrs Humphrey lived 
for her little follies, as so many of us do, though our follies may 
not seem so small to us as hers. 


The Effect of an Insinuation, 63 

Her son gave a harsh little laugh as he reflected on these things, 
but still he went on reflecting. In the meanwhile, at home the two 
old ladies were impatiently waiting for him. The dinner hour was 
already past, and Mrs Humphrey and Miss Tomkins, in evening 
dress, were sitting in state in the drawing-room. 

‘ I wonder what can have detained Arthur, sister ? ’ said Mrs 
Humphrey, for the third time at least. 

‘ He is often very late now, I think,’ replied Miss Tomkins, in a 
marked manner. 

A nervous twitching passed over Mrs Humphrey’s wasted face. 

‘ Do you mean anything, sister ? ’ she said. 

Before Miss Tomkins could answer, the room door opened and 
Mr Thirlwell, the doctor’s assistant, walked in. Mr Thirlwell was 
one of poor Mrs Humphrey’s especial aversions, and she considered 
it very objectionable to be obliged to dine with him. 

‘ A nobody’s son,’ she said to Dr Arthur. 

Mr Thirlwell, however, was happily constituted. He laughed at the 
airs the two old ladies gave themselves, and familiarly spoke of Lans- 
downe Lodge as Tomkins’ Lodge. He came into the drawing-room 
now, looking perfectly self-satisfied, though Mrs Humphrey began 
to fan herself and draw out her scent bottle the moment he entered. 

‘ I declare he always smells of rhubarb,’ Mrs Humphrey used to 
say, with a shudder. 

‘ Or pills, sister,’ Miss Tomkins would reply. 

But at all events he was pleased with himself ; he was fresh- 
coloured, and rather good-looking, with curly light hair and blue 
eyes. There were maidens around who considered the doctor’s 
assistant handsome, and preferred his easy manner to that of the 
grave Dr Humphrey. 

‘Doctor not in yet?’ he said now to Mrs Humphrey, smiling 
affably. 

‘ He must have been detained, I conclude,’ replied Mrs Humphrey. 

‘ Having tea' with three pretty girls,’ said Mr Thirlwell, still 
smiling. 

‘ Indeed ! ’ said Mrs Humphrey. 

‘ I spotted him,’ said Mr Thirlwell ; ‘he was at Fletcher’s cottage 
to meet Bessie and Flo Chester — done thing that, I consider, be- 
tween Flo and Fletcher ’ 

‘ Indeed ! ’ again said Mrs Humphrey, for with all her pride she 
was not above liking to hear the small gossip of the neighbour- 
hood. ‘ Oh ! indeed ; then you think Miss Flo Chester will marry 
this Mr Fletcher ? ’ 

‘Consider it a done thing,’ replied the young man, ‘and a 
splendid thing for Flo ! Fletcher gets seven hundred, I’m told, 
from Lady Blunt now, and we all know, etc., etc., that his respected 
parent provided for him before. Yes, Miss Flo has done very well 
with her dark eyes, but for my part I think Bessie is a fine girl, too.’ 

‘ Perhaps some day we shall have to congratulate you, Mr Thirl- 
well?’ said Mrs Humphrey.^ 

The young doctor shook his head. 

‘Not a marrying man, Mrs Humphrey,’ he said. ‘Not yet a 


64 Out of Eden, 

bit, at least— but Bessie is a fine girl, though, of course, the finest 
girl about here is Mary Fletcher.’ 

‘ I know nothing of her,’ said Mrs Humphrey haughtily. 

‘ Doctor does though,’ said young Thirlwell, with a laugh, and 
Mrs Humphrey nearly fell off her chair with horror. 

‘ He knows her professionally, I suppose,’ she said. 

‘ Ay, yes, that’s it ! ’ answered Thirwell, still laughing, as if at 
some good joke, and he was laughing still when Dr Arthur Hum- 
phrey himself walked into the room. 

Thirlwell, who was rather afraid of Dr Humphrey, now composed 
his face, and the dinner passed off as usual, and then Dr Arthur 
retired to his study. But the memory of Mary Fletcher followed 
him there. He tried to read, and her image came before him and 
the now dull page ! 

‘ I won’t think of her ! ’ he said, and he began to smoke, but still 
he saw the beautiful Greek-like face, and the pale gold hair, and 
the grand figure of the woman he had watched to-day. 

And while Dr Arthur was trying not to think of Mary Fletcher 
downstairs, upstairs Mrs Humphrey and Miss Tomkins were think- 
ing of her with absolute dismay. 

‘ Sister,’ said Mrs Humphrey at length, in almost a tragic 
whisper, ‘ could that vulgar young man mean anything?^ 

‘ About that — that person ? ’ replied Miss Tomkins, also below 
her breath. 

‘ I mean the sister of the person whom Lady Blunt has chosen 
to appoint as her agent,’ said Mrs Humphrey. 

‘Dreadful!’ said Miss Tomkins, shaking her head; ‘such 
persons should be — ignored.’ 

‘ If I thought my son would look at her, would speak to her, ex- 
cept professionally, it would kill me ! ’ said Mrs Humphrey. 

‘ Now, sister Maria, you will make yourself ill ; you will get that 
pain in your side if you excite yourself thus,’ said Miss Tomkins 
warningly. 

‘ I am ill, I have a pain in my side,’ whimpered the poor, faded, 
white-haired old lady. 

‘ Don’t, dear,’ said sister Annie, ‘ don’t distress yourself ; I must 
give you some cordial ; you must take some.’ 

‘ I am almost a tea-to -teller,’ sighed Mrs Humphrey, but she was 
over-persuaded, and then she in turn persuaded her sister to take 
a little cordial too. 

Every night nearly the two sisters went through this little farce. 
They were quite sober old ladies, but they thought it necessary to 
have some excuse for their mild conviviality, and so one or the 
other always had a slight ailment before bedtime. 

But Mrs Humphrey’s anxiety about her son was so real, that 
after sister Annie had seen sister Mara safely in bed, she sipped a 
little more cordial, and gaining courage from this last ‘ sip,’ she 
determined to go downstairs, and attack her nephew on the subject 
which was causing such uneasiness to his mother. 

She accordingly went downstairs, and rapped at the study door, 
and was told by Dr Arthur to ‘ come in.’ 


The Effect of a?i Insinuation, 65 

* Aunt Annie ! ’ he said, astonished, and rising from his seat 
when he saw the faded anxious little face peeping in. 

‘ Yes, Arthur; can I speak to you said Miss Tomkins. 

‘ Of course, come in ; where will you sit V replied her nephew. 

‘ It’s about your mother,’ said Miss Tomkins, after she had 
seated herself. ‘ In fact, Arthur, your mother has been very much 
upset to-night — about — well, about you.’ 

‘ About me ! What on earth have I done ? ’ asked Dr Arthur, 
in genuine astonishment. 

‘ Well, dear, that young man you have, Mr Thirlwell, said some- 
thing to her about you ; and — and that young person — the sister of 
the person Lady Blunt has appointed to be agent to the estates — 
and — ’ 

‘What?’ cried Dr Humphrey, starting up from his chair, his 
usually pale face turning red with anger. ‘ Did Thirlwell dare to 
say anything about me — and Miss Fletcher, I suppose, you 
mean ? ’ 

The feeble little old maiden aunt was frightened by the sudden 
anger and strong emotion depicted on her nephew’s countenance. 
She twittered ; she grew pale. 

‘He didn’t say much,’ she said, ‘he — he only insinuated — but 
that was enough nearly to kill your mother.’ 

‘He insinuated anything about me ! ’ repeated Dr Arthur, in great 
wrath. ‘ What did he say. Aunt Annie ? Tell me every word ; I 
insist on hearing what he said.’ 

‘ Well, not much, dear ; don’t look so angry — he — well, I think 
he only said you’d been having tea with three pretty girls.’ 

Dr Arthur Humphrey gave a harsh little laugh. 

‘ That wasn’t anything very dreadful, Aunt Annie, was it ? ’ he said. 

‘ No, dear, but he said — I think Maria said — she did not know 
this person— and he, the young man Thirlwell, laughed in his free, 
vulgar way, “ Oh, but the doctor does,” he said, and the idea nearly 
killed your mother.’ 

‘ Utter folly !’ exclaimed Dr Arthur, beginning to pace up and 
down the room. 

‘ Well, dear, you know how sensitive your mother is — and you 
know how correct and proper her ideas are — and the very thought 
that you should speak even to a young person like — like this, was 
dreadful to her.’ 

‘ What fault is it of the poor girl ? ’ said Dr Arthur, with sudden 
bitterness. ‘ You and my mother — you highly proper ladies, forget 
this. You might cut the late Sir Henry Blunt if you had the oppor- 
tunity ; but why visit his sins on the head of his innocent child ? ’ 

Miss Tomkins rose with dignity. 

‘ I decline to discuss such questions with you, Arthur,’ she said. 
‘ I object to such subjects, and I will not converse on them. I 
came downstairs to give you a hint— a hint to save your mother’s 
life, as you know she has heart disease, and— and any gossip about 
you and this person will, I know, kill my sister. I have given you 
a hint, and now I wish you good-night.’ And so the old lady van- 
ished, leaving Dr Arthur Humphrey to his reflections. 

.E- 


66 


Out of Eden. 

These were naturally not over pleasant ones. He certainly did 
not wish to pain his mother, and he knew he would give her bitter 
pain if he thought of Mary Fletcher. On the other hand — 

The end of his cogitations amounted to this : he would go no 
more near Mary, and the next day he kept to his resolution. But 
retribution for his thoughtless gossip awaited the unfortunate Mr 
Thirlwell. In fact, the doctor’s temper became ‘ so awful,’ the young 
man confided to his confidential friends, ‘ no fellow could bear it.’ 
And there was really some truth in this statement. Everything 
seemed worthless and wearisome to Dr Humphrey, and he was 
naturally a man of somewhat harsh manner, though of kindly 
heart. But he felt unreasonably angry with Thirlwell. 

‘ The fool ! ’ he said to himself a dozen times a day, looking with 
contemptuous eyes at his unfortunate assistant. He would allow 
nothing for the lad’s light-heartedness and vulgarity. He had 
made mischief, that was enough, and Dr Arthur made him the 
scapegoat of his own disturbed and restless feelings. 


CHAPTER X. 

LADY BLUNT’S ADVICE. 

Robert Fletcher had had business to transact with Lady Blunt 
on the morning when he met Sir Harry and Bessie and Flo Chester 
starting on their fishing expedition, and though a man may be con- 
sumed with jealousy, he is often forced by circumstances to conceal 
' the inward fire. 

He, therefore, met Lady Blunt with a smile ; but Lady Blunt, who 
had watched him unseen just after his meeting with her son and her 
two young guests, knew that he was really agitated and disturbed, 
and with some womanly wit and discretion she presently approached 
the subject. 

‘ I was so surprised yesterday,’ she said, without looking at her 
agent, ‘ at the unexpected arrival of my son. But you would meet 
the young people going out to fish, did you not ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ answered Robert, ‘ I met Sir Harry and the Miss Chesters.’ 
And he, also, did not look at Lady Blunt. 

‘ I am a little uneasy,’ continued Lady Blunt, still with her eyes 
cast down, and her thin hands nervously twitching, ‘ a little uneasy 
—about him. I treat you confidentially, Mr Fletcher. Can he, 
do you think, have got into any trouble about money, or other 
troubles ? ’ 

For a moment Robert was silent, but in that moment of silence a 
great feeling of relief stole into his heart. 

‘ It may be,’ he said ; ‘ lads of his age, you know. Lady Blunt—’ 

‘ Precisely. Now if this is so, we must try to help him. I think 
there is sornething, for he seemed nervous when he arrived yester- 
day, and this morning he was evidently anxious to get out of the 
house, and he asked the two girls to go with him j but I do not 


Lady Blunt's Advice, 67 

approve of any such intimacy ; it is foolish, for the girls* sake ; 
and, by-the-bye, Mr Fletoher, how was it you did not return with 
them yesterday ? You have had no quarrel, I hope ?’ 

‘No, none,’ answered Robert gravely. 

‘ I am glad of that. Florence is a very fine girl, a little wayward, 
perhaps ; but her poor father spoilt her, and Fve been fancying, Mr 
Fletcher — ’ And Lady Blunt smiled. 

Robert smiled in return, and his face flushed. 

‘ Lady Blunt,’ he said, after a moment’s pause. ‘ I did not mean 
to speak of this subject to-day, but as you have done so, as you have 
treated me with great kindness, would you be pleased or sorry if I 
could — if — if Florence would be my wife.?’ 

The young man’s voice faltered, and his whole manner showed 
the deep and true emoLion of his heart. Lady Blunt looked at him, 
and a strong feeling of liking and sympathy prompted her answer. 

‘ Mr Fletcher,’ she said, also with a trembling voice, and she 
held out her hand to him, ‘circumstances — the painful circum- 
stances that you know of — at one time made me dislike your very 
name. But since I have known you, since I have learned your 
character, I feel the greatest respect and liking for you. This 
child, Florence, is the daughter of my old friend. I have noticed 
your regard for her, noticed it with sincere pleasure, and, let me 
assure you, nothing will give me so much pleasure as to see her 
your wife.’ 

‘ I thank you. Lady Blunt,’ said Robert, and he bent down and 
kissed the slender twitching hand of the lady who had been his 
father’s wife. 

Lady Blunt was touched. She understood what Robert meant 
to express as he pressed his lips on her hand, and, with a new 
gentleness in her voice, she now spoke to him. 

‘ Take an old woman’s advice,’ she said, ‘ and if you really wish 
to win Florence, do not wait too long in asking her. Men often 
err thus — they are perhaps too modest about their own merits, 
and girls get tired of waiting, and commit a hundred follies in pique.’ 

‘ You think it is not too soon ? ’ asked Robert nervously. 

‘ I think things are better settled,’ answered Lady Blunt. ‘ You 
did not dine with us yesterday, Mr Fletcher, will you dine with us 
to-day ? ’ 

Again Robert thanked her. He would only be too delighted, he 
said. Lady Blunt’s idea about the cause of Sir Harry’s unexpected 
return now became his idea, the more he reflected on the subject. 
The lad had got into some trouble, and wanted money. Nothing 
could be more likely, thought Robert, and he parted with Lady 
Blunt in a very different mood from that in which he had met her. 

But he was restless and excited. He tried to settle to some 
work, presently threw it aside, and went out for a long and lonely 
ride among the hills. A hundred tender fancies filled his brain. 
He loved Florence so much that her image was always with him, 
and subtle links seemed to connect every action of his life with hers. 

As he went on, almost unconsciously weaving a romance one 
face sufficed to fill, he met Dr Arthur Humphrey, who had settled 


68 


Out of Eden. 

in his own mind on the previous evening not to think any more of 
Mary Fletcher, but who now actually felt a slight mental disturb- 
ance on his accidental meeting with her brother. 

The two men exchanged very friendly greetings, and then Dr 
Humphrey asked Robert, with rather a meaning smile, if he had 
landed the young ladies safely last night. 

Robert laughed and coloured. 

‘ All right,’ he said ; ‘ and who do you think we found waiting for 
us? Harry Blunt.’ 

Dr Humphrey shrugged his shoulders. 

‘I heard he was back,’ he said. ‘Well — he’s no good.’ And 
again he gave a little shrug. 

‘ He’s rather a stupid young fellow,’ said Robert. 

‘ And you may add vicious. I hear he admires Miss Flo Chester ; 
if I were you I would not allow it,’ answered the doctor, with a 
little laugh. 

Robert also laughed, but Arthur Humphrey’s words made their 
mark. They made Robert, in fact, determine to settle the matter. 
He believed, and he had some reason to believe this, that Florence 
Chester liked him, and he naturally did not care to hear of another 
man admiring her ; a man or rather youth, on whom his own jealous 
suspicions had already fallen. 

So he made up his mind. If he could make an opportunity, he 
would ask Florence this very day to be his wife. 

And he was a man to make up his mind and keep to his re- 
solve. He kept to it when he entered the drawing-room in the 
evening, at Weirmere Hall, and found young Harry bending over 
Florence, fanning her with a Japanese fen ; he kept to it when, in 
a marked manner. Sir Harry offered his arm to Florence to take 
her in to dinner, leaving Robert to look after Lady Blunt and 
Bessie ; and when during that meal the young baronet had no eyes 
or ears apparently but for Florence. 

It was only a small party, and the conversation ought, therefore, 
to have been general ; and Robert, who was a well-read man, up 
in the topics of the day, tried to make it so, and exerted himself to 
the best of his ability. But it is very difficult to talk when one 
member of a limited company keeps up a half-whispered conver- 
sation with another person in that company. And young Harry 
did this, though he received no encouragement for his ill-breeding 
from Florence, who sat with downcast eyes, and a flush on her 
usually somewhat pale complexion. She looked handsome, but 
worried and disturbed ; and no sooner was dinner over, than she 
ran upstairs to her own room, and did not return to the drawing- 
room with Lady Blunt. 

But presently Lady Blunt sent Bessie to seek her, and the sisters 
re-appeared together. Then Lady Blunt, anxious to give Robert 
an opportunity of speaking to Florence, slipped her arm through 
her son’s^ and asked Sir Harry if he could spare her half-an-hour, 
as she wished to speak to him in the library. 

‘Won’t the morning do, mother?’ said Harry Blunt unwillingly. 

■ my dear ; I would rather say what I have got to say now,* 


Lady B hint's Advice, 69 

answered Lady Blunt ; and she added, looking at Robert, ‘ I am 
sure Mr Fletcher will excuse us.’ 

‘ Certainly, Lady Blunt,’ said Robert ; and so, with her arm 
through her son’s (who had his own reasons for not quarrelling with 
her), Lady Blunt left the drawing-room, pausing a moment on her 
way to the library to call for Bessie. 

‘ Bessie, my dear,’ she said, as the elder Miss Chester appeared, 
‘will you run upstairs for my blue bag, containing my last embroid- 
ery, and bring it to me in the library ? And, Bessie,’ she added, 
whispering in Bessie’s ear, ‘ you need not go back to the drawing- 
room just now, for I know Mr Fletcher wishes to speak to Florence.’ 

She thus gave Robert an opportunity of being alone with Flor- 
ence, and, taking her unwilling son with her, she proceeded to the 
library, and as the door of the drawing-room closed behind them, 
Robert rose and went up to Florence, who was nervously opening 
and shutting her fan. 

‘ Florence,’ said Robert, with some agitation, yet with determina- 
tion also, ‘ I have got something to say to you. I want you to 
listen to me.’ And he would have taken her hand, but Florence 
opened her fan with a little jerk, and prevented him. 

‘ Don’t say anything just now,’ she said, trying to speak lightly, 
and smiling, ‘anything but nonsense, at least ; for I am too tired to 
talk of anything sensible.’ 

‘Yet it is something very serious I would say, Florence,’ answered 
Robert. ‘ Something that affects your future life and mine.’ 

‘ Don’t say it, then,’ said Florence, shaking her head in her 
pretty way ; ‘ don’t, really — I can’t think to-night — you know we 
were out on the water all day, and I am weary, weary, weary.’ 

‘ But, dear, I must speak,’ said Robert earnestly. ‘ I also am 
weary, Florence — weary of waiting. Do you understand .? Yes, I 
know you do. Florence, you know I love you very dearly, and I 
don’t care to see that boy dancing attendance on you as he does. 
His mother does not care for it ; and, Florence, for my sake, tell 
him you will not have it. Tell him, dear, that some day you will 
be my wife.’ And Robert now caught both her hands and looked 
eagerly in her face. 

Florence half rose and half pushed him away. 

‘ I am sorry you have said this,’ she said ; ‘ very, very 
sorry.’ 

‘ But why, Florence ? ’ 

‘ Because I — I grieve to pain you — to pain a man I — I like so 
much, who was a friend of my dear father, who has been so kind 
a friend in all our great troubles ; but it cannot be, Robert — no, it 
cannot be ! ’ And Florence once more sank back on her seat, and 
covered her face with her hand. 

‘ But why, Florence, I earnestly entreat you, tell me why ?’ asked 
Robert, deeply agitated by her unexpected reply. 

But Florence made no answer. She sat there with her hands 
over her face, and presently drew out her handkerchief, for her 
eyes were full of tears. 

‘ Tell me, Florence,’ urged Robert, and he gently drew away her 


70 Out of Eden, 

hand from her face; ‘tell me, dear! Surely, in time you could 
learn to love me ; there is nothing to prevent it ; is there, Florence ? 
Tell me, if there is.* 

‘ I will only pain you,’ said Florence. ‘ I did not want you to 
say this, Robert — indeed, I am not worthy of any regret — I know 
that well enough. I am sorry, oh, so sorry, this has happened. 
But it cannot be ; you must not think of me any more.’ 

‘ But why ? ’ again asked Robert, and he rose and stood before 
her. ‘ Florence,’ he continued, ‘ surely it cannot be that you are 
thinking of that wretched boy who has just left the room? ‘You 
are not thinking surely of his rank or his money ? ’ 

‘ Hush ! hush 1 ’ said Florence, rising also ; ‘do not talk thus — it 
will do no good. You may regret it afterwards ; and I cannot, 1 
ought not to listen to you.’ 

‘ What ! ’ cried Robert, and his face suddenly blanched, and he 
started back. 

‘ Perhaps I had better tell you,’ continued Florence, also much 
agitated ; ‘ it will save pain to us both, and I know I can trust you. 
I know you will not tell Lady Blunt — but, but. Sir Harry asked me 
to marry him to-day, and — and — and I promised — ’ 

‘You promised ! ’ repeated Robert, with quivering lips. 

‘ Yes,’ said Florence. ‘ Don’t look at me like that, Robert 1 ’ she 
added ; ‘ think for a moment of our position — our miserable posi- 
tion — and — and do not judge me harshly.’ 

For a moment Robert did not speak. He stood there looking at 
the woman he loved so deeply, telling him the ignoble truth. 
What ! she would marry this youth ; this youth she confessedly 
did not love, for the sake of his name and his future wealth ! 
Could it be ? This bright girl, whom in his fond love he had 
believed to be so pure and true I 

‘ I know what you will think,’ almost pleaded Florence, for the 
expression on Robert’s face touched her to the heart, ‘ but you do 
not know all ; no man can understand all the petty slights and 
insults that have been heaped upon us here; the very servants 
sneer at us, and everything is so wretched. In fact, Robert, I have 
made up my mind. ‘My lady,’ she added, bitterly, ‘broke my 
father’s heart ; and I will live to show her I shall never forget it.’ 

‘ And for this,’ said Robert, with strong indignation and passion, 
‘ this most unjust and untrue accusation against Lady Blunt, and 
for the mean and contemptible motive that this wretched boy is 
titled and rich, you will degrade yourself body and soul 1 Do not 
tell me it is not so,’ continued Robert, with rising passion, ‘ for it is 
true. Florence, you do not know what this young man is — I am 
not pleading for myself — put me out of the question — but pause, 
I implore you, before you allow such small things to influence you ; 
such little things indeed you will find them in comparison to living 
with a youth like this. You are but a girl — I cannot tell you what 
I could tell you ; but, believe me, Harry Blunt is worthy of no good 
woman’s love.’ 

Florence gave her shoulders a little shrug. 

‘ I am not desperately in love with him,’ she said, ‘ and I am not 


Lady Blunfs Advice, 71 

good. We will suit each other, Robert,^ she added, with a little 
sadness in her tone, ‘ better than I would have suited you. I am 
worldly, I suppose ; I want to see my lady wince. I want to snub 
these wretched servants, who have been rude to us just because 
we are poor. I want to be rich, and to be my lady,’ she added, » 
with a smile, ‘ and so I must make the best of my bargain ; but I 
am very sorry — very, very sorry to give you pain.’ And she held 
out her hand to Robert. 

But he did not take it. Still he stood looking at her. She had 
been his idol, and he had worshipped her, believing in her sweet 
womanhood, and she herself, by her own lips, had shattered his 
belief into the dust ! 

‘ Have you quite decided.?’ he said at last, in a changed voice. 
‘Do you know what you are doing? Ask Arthur Humphrey, ask 
any true friend, and take their advice, if you will not listen to me.’ 

‘ I have quite decided,’ said Florence. ‘ I know what I am do- 
ing, and I know my motives. I am only sorry — ’ 

‘ Hush ! ’ interrupted Robert Fletcher, in a tone of intense pain, 

‘ do not name me any more — ’ 

‘ We are only giving each other unnecessary pain, then, by pro- 
longing this conversation,’ said Florence. ‘ I wish you would go 
away now, Mr Fletcher. In a little while you will see all this quite 
differently : you will understand that I am unworthy of your regret, 
for indeed I am.’ 

‘ Good-night,’ said Robert abruptly, and without another word 
he turned and left the room, with about as bitter misery in his heart 
as a man could well endure. 

As he descended the staircase, he suddenly came face to face 
with young Harry Blunt, who was running up them, and when he 
saw Robert he threw back his head and gave a little triumphant 
laugh ; no, scarcely a laugh, and, yet, Robert understood it to 
mean so much. 

But he never lifted his head and never looked at Harry Blunt. 
He felt stunned like a man who had heard his death-warrant, and 
he did not notice that Lady Blunt was standing at the library door 
with a face nearly as white and agitated as his own. 

She beckoned to him, but he did not see her. Then she spoke. 

‘ Mr Fletcher,’ she said, in a husky whisper ; and when Robert 
turned and looked at her he saw she was almost overcome with 
anger and emotion. ‘ Come in here,’ she said, as he approached 
her, ‘ I have some terrible news.’ 


CHAPTER XI. 

‘the pangs of despised love.’ 

Robert followed Lady Blunt into the library, and she closed the 
door behind him, and then standing before him pale and trembling, 
she spoke. 


72 Out of Eden. 

‘ What do you think that boy has just told me ?’ she said. 

Robert tried to speak but his voice failed him. 

‘ I see by your face/ continued Lady Blunt, ‘ that she too has 
said something. Mr Fletcher this cannot be ; it shall not be ! She 
is no match for him, and yet — that boy has absolutely told me that 
he is engaged to her ! ’ 

Again Robert tried to speak, and Lady Blunt heard a few husky 
words in so changed a voice to his ordinary one, that a feeling of 
deep pity for him began to mingle with her anger. 

‘She has behaved shamefully, cruelly, to you/ she said, ‘but I 
will never give my consent to so preposterous a marriage as this. 
Harry is but a boy. I will send him away, and he will soon forget 
such folly, and she must give it up — it is madness, absolute 
madness 

‘What did he say.?’ asked Robert, struggling with his bitter 
emotion. 

‘ Say ! ’ repeated Lady Blunt sharply. ‘ I cannot tell you all the 
folly he said. I asked him why he had come back so unexpectedly, 
and if he were in any trouble, and he laughed and said he was not. 
Then I spoke to him about taking out those girls on the lake to- 
day, and I told him I could not have it, that, in fact, it was not a 
correct thing to do, and he laughed again ; and I said I was sure 
you did not like it, and as you liked Florence — ’ 

Here Lady Blunt paused, for Robert perceptibly winced. 

‘ Well.?’ he said, after a moment’s silence. 

‘ You know his way — his boyish way— so when I said you liked 
Florence, he began to talk very foolishly, and the upshot of it all 
was, he said he might as well tell me, for he had made up his mind, 
and she had made up hers — and — they meant to be married. But 
we must prevent it, Mr Fletcher ; you must help me, and we must 
prevent it.’ 

Lady Blunt said all this in a tone of strong excitement. She was 
still standing before Robert, looking eagerly, anxiously, in his face, 
and a look of bitter, angry disappointment passed over her own at 
his answer. 

‘ I can do nothing to prevent it. Lady Blunt,’ he said. 

‘ Nothing ! I thought you cared for her — you loved her ?’ 

Again an indescribable look of pain flitted over Robert’s face. 

‘ I asked her to marry me/ he said ; ‘ what else can a man 
do?’ 

‘And she refused you ?’ 

‘ She refused me.’ 

‘But what else did she say? Did she give a reason?* urged 
Lady Blunt eagerly. 

‘ She refused me, and she gave a reason — a reason I am not at 
liberty to repeat.’ 

‘ What folly ! ’ said Lady Blunt impatiently. ‘ A reason indeed ! 
—she might have been too glad to get you — but it’s her ambition, 
her absurd ambition— she has schemed to marry Harry for his 
title and position.’ 

‘ I do not think she schemed to marry him/ said Robert gener- 


^The Pangs of Despised Love.' 73 

ously ; ‘ from the first time he saw her after her father’s death he 
admired her.’ 

‘A boy’s admiration ! We know what it is worth, Mr Fletcher. 
No, they must give this folly up.’ 

Robert was silent. He knew Florence did not mean to give Sir 
Harry up, and so presently, sick at heart, and utterly weary of life 
he went away. 

As he walked down by the lake side, he thought how he had 
risked all his happiness on this venture, and how everything now 
was wrecked. He had loved Florence Chester dearly, and every 
thought of his heart had been interwoven with her image, and all 
his future mapped and planned out to be spent with her. Now the 
future seemed nothing but a weary, dreary waste. How could he 
live it ? Go on without interest, without hope ? And he despised 
himself too. ^ To feel so utterly broken down for the loss of such an 
unworthy thing ! Not for honour, nor for nobleness, nor love had 
she refused him. But to be my lady ! And Robert’s lips curled 
with a very bitter curl as he made this last reflection. 

And so, miserable and self-humiliated, he reached the cottage. 
Mary’s maid came into the parlour when she heard him return, 
looking in anything but a happy frame of mind ; and though the 
lamp was lit, and a bright fire burning, and every arrangement 
made for his comfort, Mary was absent. 

‘ Oh ! please sir,’ said the rosy-cheeked maid, ‘ Miss Mary said 
I was to give you this the moment you came in — and, please sir, 
they do say she’s gone to Moony’s — but the letter will tell you.’ 

Robert snatched the letter and tore it open. It was in Mary’s 
firm, clear handwriting, and was as follows : — 

‘ Dear Robert, — Don’t be angry, but I suppose you have heard 
that poor Moony, the cobbler, is dead, and Johnnie Moony, the 
eldest boy, died this afternoon ; and, would you believe it, in this 
(so-called) Christian land not one of the neighbours will go near 
them, and Mrs Moony is now ill, and five small children are left to 
take care of themselves, the eldest seven, the youngest a babe of 
three months. I am not afraid of infection, and I know this sad 
story is true, for I heard it from Margaret’s mother, who has just 
been here, and her husband made poor Moony’s coffin, and so I 
am going to risk it, and act as head nurse to the babies, at all 
events until the poor mother pulls through. But donH co7ne 7iear. 
If I want anything I will contrive to let you know, and some of the 
men about the place can leave what I require in front of the cot- 
tage ; and don’t be afraid about me ; I am a strong young woman, 
and for once in my life I think I can be of some use. — Ever your 
affectionate sister, Mary.’ 

Robert gave an absolute cry of dismay as he read this letter. 
Moony, the cobbler, who had lived about a mile further down the 
lake, had died, he knew, on the previous day, of a very bad attack 
of typhus fever, and he had heard also that Johnnie, the eldest boy, 
was ill. These Moonys were very poor, and rented a miserable 
little cottage belonging to Lady Blunt, ill-drained and ill-conditioned, 


74 Out of Eden, 

and Robert had seriously represented but a day or two before to 
Lady Blunt that if the man recovered this cottage ought to be pulled 
down and rebuilt. 

And now to think that Mary — his dear Mary— was in this in- 
fected den ! No wonder he gave a cry. He snatched up his cap, 
and with scarcely a word to the maid-servant, Margaret, who ran 
after him crying she dare not be left alone, Robert hurried as fast 
as he could go down to the Moony’s cottage, with the fullest inten- 
tion of insisting upon Mary returning with him. 

It was a broken-down little spot, standing in a damp, small, 
neglected garden, and as Robert entered this garden by the open, 
swinging wicket-gate, he could see Mary through the uncurtained 
window, by the light of a single tallow candle inside, trying to in- 
duce a little naked child to allow her to wash him. Mary had the 
sturdy little fellow on her knee, and was endeavouring to induce 
him to go into a large basin of water standing on the floor before 
her. 

‘You know, Tommy, you can’t be good unless you are clean,* 
said Mary gravely. 

‘ Don’t care ! ’ replied Tommy doggedly, regarding the basin in 
front with looks of extreme distaste. 

‘ Nor pretty,’ urged Mary. 

‘ Don’t care !’ repeated Tommy, and Mary was just considering 
what further arguments she could use since Tommy was alike in- 
different to virtue and vanity, when Robert walked impetuously into 
the cottage. 

‘ Mary, what on earth have you done this for ? ’ he said. 

Mary put up her hand, and Tommy instantly took advantage of 
the action, and rolled off her knee and made a rapid retreat into 
the corner of the room. 

‘ Why did you come, Robert ? ’ said Mary. ‘ Go away at once, 
like a dear boy.’ 

‘That is very likely,’ answered Robert, "‘when you are here. 
But, Mary, what reason was there for this most foolish action ? 
Surely nurses might be got — Humphrey ought to have seen to 
it.’ 

‘These poor people are not Dr Humphrey’s patients, Robert,’ 
said Mary. ‘ Hush, dear, don’t speak loud,’ she continued, point- 
ing to the blue-checked curtained bed, ‘ the poor mother is there — 
she is asleep now, and I was trying to wash the children. Dr 
Watson from Oniston will come in the morning, and he promised 
to try to get someone there to help ; but in the meanwhile, Robert, 
no one would come near — and they are our neighbours.’ And 
Mary smiled. 

Robert did not speak ; he put off his cap, and he sat down, and 
when Mary urged him again to go he shook his head. 

‘Don’t be stupid, child,’ he said ; ‘ I am thinking what it is best 
to do.’ 

‘ Go home,’ said Mary. ‘ I will really send for what I want. 
Look at the three little girls ; are they not pretty ? I have got 
them all washed, only Tommy is naughty.’ And she shook her 


^The Pangs of Despised Love? 75 

head at the little fellow in the corner, who was staring with his 
round blue eyes wide open at Robert. 

‘ Come here and be washed for a penny, Tommy,’ said Robert, 
addressing the sturdy boy, after having looked at the three pretty 
little girls asleep in the crib. 

But Tommy shook his head and declined the bribe. 

‘Won’t you come fora penny?’ continued Robert. ‘Will you 
come for twopence then?’ And he produced the pennies' as he 
spoke. 

Upon this Tommy cautiously advanced, eyeing the pennies as 
he came. 

‘ Will you be washed for twopence ? ’ repeated Robert. 

‘ Gi’ us them in our hand, then,’ said Tommy, and when Robert 
placed them in the little dirty palm, Tommy honourably submitted 
to be put into the basin. 

‘ We all have our price, you see,’ said Robert, with a certain 
amount of bitterness that was unusual to him ; and when Mary 
looked up from her task of washing Tommy he turned away. 

‘ I am going now, Mary,’ he said. ‘ I will be back in half-an- 
hour, and I will see if I can’t get someone to help you, and I will 
bring what I think you want. Good-night for the present, Molly.’ 
And Robert was gone. 

He went straight from the Moonys’ cottage to Dr Arthur Hum- 
phrey’s house. This was a distance of fully three miles, and it was, 
therefore, late when he arrived at the doctor’s, and the whole house- 
hold had retired for the night but the doctor. Robert rang gently 
at the surgery bell, and presently Arthur Humphrey answered the 
summons. 

‘ Fletcher ! ’ he said, with a surprised and alarmed look, when he 
saw Robert. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope ? ’ 

. ‘ May I come in ? ’ said Robert, and a moment or two later he 
was in Arthur Humphrey’s study, and was explaining the cause of 
his late visit. 

‘You know Moony, the cobbler, is dead of typhus fever?’ he 
said. 

‘ Yes,’ answered the doctor ; ‘ a very bad case, I fear ; and the 
eldest boy, I am told, is dead also. There must be something wrong 
in the house, Fletcher.’ 

‘ And who do you think is now in that house ? ’ said Robert, with 
some agitation of manner. 

The doctor gave a little gesture to indicate he did not know. 

‘ It seems no one will go near them,’ continued Robert, ‘ and 
Margaret, Mary’s servant, has been telling her all this, and when I 
got home I found Mary gone, and a note from her to tell me ; and 
there she is now, Humphrey— alone in the house with the fever- 
stricken mother and five or six small children, and I want you to 
help me.’ 

‘Alone!’ repeated Arthur Humphrey, and Robert noticed he 
grew very pale. ‘ This mustn’t be. I’ll go down at once.’ 

‘ I want you to find me a nurse,’ said Robert. ‘ Mary says none 
of the neighbours will go near the house ; but offer them anything, 


76 Out of Rden, 

Humphrey, offer them any money you like, and I will gladly pay 
it. And will you give me a lot of disinfectants ? and will you come 
down first thing in the morning ? ’ 

‘Fllgodown now,’ said Dr Humphrey quietly. ‘It is not my 
case. This poor man, it seems, came from Oniston, and he has 
always had the doctor there — Watson, a decent man enough ; but 
at all events, I will go down at once, and I will take what I think 
the woman will require with me — and your sister must go home.’ ^ 

‘ Thank you,’ said Robert, and he sat wearily down until, in his 
energetic way. Dr Humphrey gathered together what he thought 
he might want ; and in a few moments he signified to Robert that 
he was ready to go. 

As they walked on he asked Robert a few questions about the 
state of the Moonys’ cottage and the general health of the family ; 
and then began talking of other things, noting in his quick way 
that Robert was unusually depressed and reticent, and that he 
seemed absolutely tired long before they reached their destination. 

When they did arrive at the cottage, they found Mary walking 
backwards and forwards with the little babe pillowed on her breast. 
She blushed deeply and gave a little start when she saw Dr 
Humphrey. 

‘ Oh, Robert ! ’ she said, reproachfully, looking at her brother. 

‘ Don’t scold Robert,’ said Arthur Humphrey, smiling and taking 
her hand. ‘ So you’ve taken to nursing again, have you, young lady ? ’ 

‘ Wasn’t it disgraceful !’ said Mary, and she put the babe softly 
in its cot, ‘ this poor woman was absolutely left alone with all these 
children ? ’ 

‘ I don’t see that it is disgraceful for people to object to run the 
chance of catching a fever,’ said Arthur Humphrey, smiling. 
‘ Well, Robert, I am going to turn you out for a while — I want to 
have a look at Dr Watson’s patient.’ 

So Robert went out of the cottage, and Dr Humphrey began ex- 
amining the unconscious mother lying in the bed. She lay in a sort 
of heavy sleep, or rather stupor, murmuring incoherent words at 
times, and did not answer nor seem to understand the doctor’s 
questions. 

‘ When did the boy die?’ he asked presently, turning to Mary. 

‘ This afternoon,’ said Mary. ‘ He is lying in there,’ she added, 
sadly, pointing to an inner room, ‘beside his father — and the poor 
mother nursed him — ’ 

‘ With the fever on her all the while. She has been ill for days, 
I can see that. And now come here. Miss Fletcher, I want a few 
words with you.’ 

‘ Well? ’ said Mary, going towards him. 

‘ You must go straight home and take off everything you are 
wearing, and make a bonfire of your garments, and use other means 
to disinfect yourself. Go now, at once ! I will stay all night here, 
and Robert will call up Thirlwell, and we shall get some woman or 
other to come in.’ 

‘ I am not going,’ said Mary, gravely and quietly. 

‘ But you 7m^st go!’ answered Dr Humphrey, turning suddenly red. 


*The Pangs of Despised Love* 77 

*No ; I am strong and well— I can nurse her better than any 
unwilling woman you can pick up. I intend to do this. I will use 
whatever means you like to escape infection ; but if it is God’s will 
that I take the fever, I have less to leave than most people ; and 
besides, you may pull me through.’ And Mary smiled her proud 
smile. 

For a moment or two Arthur Humphrey did not speak. He stood 
looking at Mary. 

‘ Less to leave than most people,’ he said at length ; ‘ a beautiful 
young woman — ’ 

‘ I do not see what that has to do with it,’ said Mary, turning away 
her head. 

‘And you are determined.?’ asked Dr Humphrey, slightly re- 
suming his professional manner. 

‘ Quite determined,’ answered Mary. 

‘ In that case I will give you some directions,’ said Arthur Hum- 
phrey quietly, ‘ and send Robert home.’ 

But Robert declined to leave Mary. 

‘ I will stay until the morning,’ he said, ‘ and in the morning we 
must contrive to get a proper nurse, Humphrey ; after all, Mary is 
right — these poor souls are our neighbours, and have certain claims 
on us.’ 

So Robert remained all night, but after doing everything he could 
to assist Mary, Arthur Humphrey went away. He would only too 
gladly have stayed, but he thought it would embarrass Mary if he 
did so, and so he left the brother and sister alone in the cottage 
with the sick woman and her helpless children. Robert spent the 
night partly lying on two chairs, and partly walking restlessly up 
and down before the cottage. He felt very unhappy, and inclined 
to envy the dead man who lay in the inner room, and who was done 
now with the work and worries of the world for ever. Mary noticed 
how depressed Robert looked, but naturally had no suspicion of 
the cause. And she was too busy to have much time to think. As 
the night wore on the poor woman in the bed grew delirious, and 
would sit up and wave about her thin worn hands. 

‘ I’ve no time to be idle,’ she said, and she grew so violent 
that Mary had to call Robert to assist her. 

But her struggles were very brief. She was too weak to make 
much resistance, and presently fell back moaning and helpless. 

‘ The childer — the poor childer,’ she kept repeating. Even her 
fever-clouded brain was haunted with the memory of her heritage 
of work and trouble. It was very sad — the bread-winner dead, the 
stricken mother, and the helpless babes. 

‘ I think we shouldn’t grumble,’ said Robert, looking painfully and 
listening pitifully to the forlorn woman babbling of her undone toil. 

* No, it is a lesson,’ answered Mary gravely, reflecting on her own 
shortcomings. 

‘ I feel so tired,’ presently said Robert, and though Mary again 
and again urged him ’to go home, he would not leave her, but fell 
into an uneasy sleep lying on some chairs. 

He was asleep still when, in the early morning. Dr Humphrey 


78 Ou t of Eden. 

and the doctor from Oniston, accompanied by a nurse from that 
town, drove up to the cottage door. Dr Humphrey had spent the 
night in riding to Oniston, and at six o’clock had called up Dr 
Watson, and after some difficulty had succeeded in procuring a 
nurse who would run the risk of undertaking a case of typhus fever. 

Dr Watson, who was a respectable little man, and who had 
been much startled by losing two patients in one house, was very 
glad to share his responsibility in the case of Mrs Moony, and 
now entered the cottage with Dr Humphrey, looking a little 
nervous when he saw Robert Fletcher, with whom he was slightly 
acquainted. 

‘ Well, you have been doing the good Samaritan, I hear ? ’ he 
said, shaking Robert’s hand, who was trying to rouse himself 

‘No, indeed, I have not. I have been taking care of my sister/ 
said Robert, smiling, and still rubbing his eyes. 

‘You have undertaken an honourable work, truly womanly work, 
my dear madam,’ said the little doctor, now addressing Mary, with 
a mildly patronising smile. ‘ Women have their peculiar mission 
— I consider nursing is that mission — I do not approve of them 
treading on the heels of men — I approve of them in their place — as 
you are now, Miss Fletcher.’ 

Mary smiled good-naturedly. 

‘ You have brought me some help, I see,* she said, looking at a 
dolorous figure in shabby black, who was standing behind the 
doctor, with a black leather bag in her hand, and with a very 
mournful and depressed expression. 

‘ This is Mrs Draper,’ said the doctor, with a wave of his hand 
to indicate that lady. ‘ She is a nurse — a professional nurse, or 
rather an assistant at those last melancholy scenes which are in- 
cidental to brief humanity — she is, I believe, a very respectable 
person.’ 

‘ I’ve laid a vast out,’ said Mrs Draper, shaking her head. ‘ I 
am a widow, miss — Draper was an assistant in the undertaking 
line, and that threw me into the business, and I’ve given satisfaction, 
I hope, in many bereaved families.’ 

‘ You must assist Miss Fletcher and follow her directions,’ said 
Dr Watson, looking at Mrs Draper. 

‘ I’ll do my little best, miss,’ said Mrs Draper, making a curtsey, 
‘ I’m more in the laying-out way, as the doctor says ; and typhus 
isn’t a pleasant illness ; but widows who have rent to pay and taxes 
cannot be choosers, and they must a-bear their lives as best they 
can.’ 

And in this resigned and melancholy frame of mind Mary found 
Mrs Draper went through her daily life ; but the doctors had only 
brought her as a temporary assistant. Dr Humphrey had written for 
a professional nurse to one of the London nursing institutions, but 
until this nurse arrived Mrs Draper had been brought to help Mary. 

And she really deserved apparently what Dr Watson said of her, 
and was a respectable woman, though of mournful tendencies. 

Even when rude little Tommy called ouf upon Mrs Draper en- 
deavouring to take him on her knee, — 


^Tzvo Foolish Young People. 79 

* away — you’re an ugly thing ! ’ Mrs Draper only mildly 
shook her head. 

‘Just hear the child, now,’ she said. ‘Ah, miss,’ she continued, 
looking contemplatively at Mary’s beautiful face, ‘ it doesn’t do to 
set too much store on looks, even if one has them, for they all come 
to the mould at last.’ 


CHAPTER XII. 

‘two foolish young people.* 

When Robert had left Lady Blunt, after she had told him that her 
son had announced he was engaged to Florence Chester, Lady 
Blunt rang the bell and desired Appleby, who answered it, to tell 
Miss Florence that she wished to speak to her. 

This message was delivered to Florence in the drawing-room, 
where she was sitting alone with Sir Harry. 

The two young people looked at each other after Appleby had 
disappeared. 

‘ You are going to catch it now,’ said Sir Harry, with a short 
laugh. 

‘ What shall I say V asked Florence. 

‘Just nothing,’ he answered. ‘ Come, you are a sharp one. You 
know well enough always what to say — only don’t break with the 
old lady ; we can’t afford that just at present.’ 

Armed with this prudent advice, Florence descended the stair- 
case, and having asked permission to do so, she entered the library, 
where she found Lady Blunt still in a state of excitement. 

‘ Come in, Florence, and shut the door,’ said Lady Blunt, as 
Florence appeared. ‘ You know why I have sent for you — my son 
will have told you, I suppose } Florence, I can not, and will not, 
allow this absurd engagement to go on.’ 

‘ You have told Sir Henry so, I conclude,’ said Florence, almost 
calmly. 

‘ Yes, I have told him, and now I tell you the same thing ; he is 
dependent on me, remember ; he has but five hundred a year of 
his own, and you know what that is. I will give him nothing if he 
marries to displease me — he is but a boy — it is indeed utterly 
absurd ! ’ 

‘ He is twenty-one, is he not, Lady Blunt ?’ 

‘ And what is that but a boy } Do you suppose that such love 
as he professes is lasting .? Florence, you have thrown away to- 
night something that is of more worth, indeed, than all my son 
could ever give you. You know what I mean — the love of an 
honest man.’ 

‘ Your inference is not very flattering to Sir Harry,’ answered 
Florence, with a little laugh, and Lady Blunt stared at her for the 
next moment, utterly dumbfounded by her impertinence. 

‘ Child,’ she said at length, ‘ more respect is due to me, I think — 


8o Out of Eden, 

due at least to my age and to my position, than you give me. Kit 
I repeat what I said. I had little cause to like Mr Fletcher — mine 
was not a happy married life, as I suppose you know well — but I 
have learned to like this young man, and I feel sure that the woman 
who marries him will be a happy woman — I feel sure he has given 
you a true and honest love.’ 

‘ I have nothing to say against Mr Fletcher,’ said Florence, and 
she cast down her dark eyes. 

‘ Then why not try to love him ? Florence, I will never give 
my consent to your marriage with my son — there are reasons’ 
(Lady Blunt’s voice trembled), ‘reasons I cannot tell you — that I 
do not wish to tell him, that would utterly and totally prevent it ; 
and rather than he should continue to think of such a thing, I 
would break a promise — a promise, Florence, given to the dead ! ’ 

As Lady Blunt said these last words she became deeply agitated, 
and began to pace up and down the room with disordered steps. 

‘ I do not understand you,’ said Florence, now also agitated. 

‘ No, you cannot ? I do not wish you to understand me, and I 
do not wish to speak to him on subjects that I hope are for ever 
forgotten and hidden now. But rather than this foolish affair 
should go on, I would break that silence ! Florence, I am speak- 
ing the truth — do not drive me to do what I abhor to do, and yet 
what is plainly my duty, if you and Henry do not respect my wishes, 
and forget all the folly that has been spoken between you to-day.’ 

Florence made no reply to this for some moments. She stood 
there facing Lady Blunt, turning now red, now pale, while her lips 
quivered, and her hands were clenched. 

Then, after some consideration, she spoke. 

‘ I am ready to forget it. Lady Blunt,’ she said ; ‘ you can speak 
to Sir Harry and tell him so.’ 

‘ I am glad and thankful to hear you say this,’ said Lady Blunt, 
in a relieved tone ; ‘ you will not regret it — you have acted well, 
Florence — and now let me urge you to think of Mr Fletcher — ’ 

‘ Nay, Lady Blunt,’ said Florence, with a smile and shaking her 
head, ‘ I cannot change my ideas quite so quickly, and I think,’ 
she added, with some feeling, ‘that Mr Fletcher deserves more 
than — this — ’ 

‘Well, we will talk of it another time,’ said Lady Blunt, ‘and 
now will you tell Henry to come to me. I wish this settled before 
I sleep to-night.’ 

Florence made a slight bow and left the room, hurrying up to 
the drawing-room, where she had left her lover impatiently waiting 
for her. 

They had a short whispered conference, and then Sir Harry went 
down to his mother, who told him that Florence had given up this 
‘ absurd affair,’ and Sir Harry bore his disappointment very coolly. 

‘ My dear,’ said his mother, ‘ you will be thankful to me some 
day — you are too young to think of marrying, Harry — wait until 
you meet some girl who is your equal ; who will take her place with 
you in society, and whose surroundings will help you on in life in- 
stead of dragging you back. I do not wish to say anything against 


*Tzvc Foolish Young- People* 8 1 

Florence Chester — her mother was not a lady — but it does not 
matter— you must both forget all this folly ; and now, Harry, the 
wisest way and the safest way for you to forget it is to leave 
Weirmere. Do you want money? I will give you a cheque for 
any sum you require.’ 

Sir Harry laughed, and named a very considerable sum. He 
would not go to-morrow, he said, but in a couple of days, perhaps. 

‘Don’t be in such haste to get rid of me, old lady,’ he said, in 
his careless way. ‘ You have arranged things after your own 
fashion, and that little jilt has given me up, you say, so it’s all 
right. You see I am not breaking my heart I’ And Sir Harry 
laughed. 

‘ No, Harry,’ said his mother gravely, ‘ I do not think your heart 
has been touched.’ 

‘ Don’t you ! It’s very lucky, then, as things have turned out. 
But good-night to you ; I want a smoke, to compose my feelings.’ 
And again Sir Harry laughed, and then left his mother. 

He went out on the terrace to smoke, and for a moment or two 
his mother watched him, and then turned away with a sigh and 
shortly afterwards retired to her own room, feeling that at all events 
she had done her duty in preventing such an absurd engagement. 

In the meanwhile. Sir Harry, having finished his cigar, went 
back into the drawing-room, which was now empty, and there wrote 
a letter of considerable length, which letter he carried upstairs with 
him when he went to bed. 

All the household had now retired to rest, but there was a dim 
light burning in one of the long corridors, and in a room down this 
corridor Flo and Bessie Chester slept. For a moment Sir Harry 
paused before the door of this room, and as he did so the door 
softly opened, and a hand — not Florence’s slim white hand — was 
put out, into which Sir Harry slipped his letter. Not a word was 
exchanged, and there was no sound, for Lady Blunt also slept in 
one of this suite of rooms, and perhaps heard her son walk past, 
and it may be again congratulated herself on her own firmness in 
separating ‘ two foolish young people.’ 

Be this as it may, she heard with not a little surprise and pleasure 
an announcement which Sir Harry made the next morning at 
breakfast. 

The post-bag had just come in, and Sir Harry had received two 
letters. He read these, and then put them in his pocket, and went 
on reading the newspapers and eating his breakfast at the same 
time, which was his usual custom. 

Both the sisters were present, and Lady Blunt, when Sir Harry 
laid down his paper and addressed his mother. 

‘ I say, mother,’ he said, ‘ I shall have to be off to-day. I am 
obliged to go on business.’ 

Lady Blunt just glanced at Florence as she replied to her son, 
but Florence was calmly looking on her plate, and never lifted her 
eyes nor showed the slightest surprise nor disappointment. For a 
moment indeed her colour varied, but even this escaped Lady 
Blunt’s observation. 


F 


82 Out of Eden. 

‘Well, my dear,* she answered, speaking to her son, ‘of course 
if you have business — ’ 

She thought Sir Harry had invented this ‘ business,’ and that it 
was an excuse to escape from an embarrassing position. 

‘ Yes, I must go,’ proceeded Sir Harry briefly, and presently he 
rose, and having finished his breakfast, he ordered Appleby to see 
after his luggage, and then, after lighting a cigar, he strolled care- 
lessly out on the terrace in front of the Hall, on which the two 
sisters, Bessie and Florence Chester, were now standing together. 

The three young people stood talking perhaps for a quarter of 
an hour or ten minutes, and then Sir Harry shook hands with the 
sisters, and the girls came into the house, and Sir Harry walked 
away in the direction of the stables. 

He left Weirmere Hall about an hour later, and Lady Blunt 
knew that he saw no more of Florence. She, in fact, was with 
her son most of the time he remained, and the sisters were upstairs 
in their own room. Lady Blunt, therefore, felt greatly relieved in 
her mind. Florence was evidently going to keep to her word, and 
in time, no doubt, reflected Lady Blunt, she will marry Mr Fletcher, 
and all this folly will be as though it had never been. 

Sir Harry went away with his mother’s handsome cheque in his 
pocket, and the life at Weirmere returned apparently to its usual 
monotonous course. By a sort of tacit agreement. Sir Harry’s 
name was never mentioned again during the day, but Lady Blunt 
noticed that Florence was quieter and more subdued in her manner 
than usual, while Bessie seemed remarkably lively. 

In the evening a little excitement was caused by the arrival of a 
note from Robert Fletcher for Lady Blunt. In this note he briefly 
told her what had occurred at the Moonys’ cottage, adding that his 
sister was still there, and that as he had spent the night there he 
thought it the wisest course for the present not to approach Weir- 
mere Hall. 

‘ How very foolish of Mary Fletcher to do such a thing 1’ said 
the prudent Bessie. 

‘ It’s just like her,’ said Florence, with kindling eyes. 

‘ It is not a wise thing, I am afraid,’ said Lady Blunt. 

‘ To be generous, unselfish, and noble is not wise in this world. 
Lady Blunt ! ’ exclaimed Florence, with sudden vehemence. 

‘You speak warmly, my dear,’ said Lady Blunt, looking at 
Florence as if surprised. ‘ I did not know you cared so much for 
Miss Fletcher ! ’ 

‘ I do not say I care for her,’ answered Florence, ‘ but I know 
when people are better than myself, and I do not call their goodness 
folly.’ 

Bessie only laughed at this reproof, and went on with her work 
perfectly undisturbed. She never allowed Florence’s ‘ flights,’ as 
she described them, to put her out of her even way. ‘ We ‘can’t 
afford to indulge in flights,’ she would tell her more excitable and 
generous-minded sister, and she thus often weighed down Florence 
to her own more wise and worldly level. 

But both sisters had a strong interest in Robert Fletcher, and 


'Two Foolish Voting Peopled 83 

when all the next week passed away without seeing him, Weirmere 
Hall seemed duller than ever. Then came a rumour — a rumour 
scarcely believed at first by Lady Blunt and the Chesters, that 
Robert Fletcher himself had taken the fever. 

This rumour proved unfortunately to be true. Ever after the 
night that he had spent in the Moonys’ infected cottage, Robert 
had felt extremely depressed and unwell. But he was too unselfish 
to speak of this to Mary. He felt, indeed, that if he really took ill, 
that the worst part of it would be the anguish which he knew it 
would cause his sister. For himself he was so weary and tired he 
did not care what happened to him. 

Suddenly to his bright, happy life had come a blight which made 
that life seem intolerable. He knew it was unmanly to feel thus ; 
he had his work and his duty to fulfil, but he felt very weary and 
very tired of it all, and his face had a flushed and haggard look 
that was totally different to its ordinary expression. 

By this time the professional nurse had arrived, and Mary was 
thus able to leave her patient. Mary had taken no harm. She 
was as well, and strong, and clear-eyed as when she had first lifted 
the poor fever patient in her arms and nursed the little fatherless 
children. She had a great pleasure also in prospect, for both the 
doctors told her she had saved Mrs Moony’s life. The poor woman 
herself, however, took only a tearful view of her case. 

‘ You’re only feeding me up for the workhus’,’ she said, sadly 
enough, while Mary was spooning beef-tea between her blackened, 
broken lips. 

‘That’s not grateful, Mrs Moony,’ said Mrs Draper, who had 
overheard the poor invalid’s remark. ‘ I don’t say the workhus’ is 
a pleasant spot, but what spot is pleasant on this lower earth.? 
Isn’t there always something now? the downiest bed has insect 
trials, not to mention particular names, and there’s caterpillars in 
the cauliflowers, and troubles and vexations, from Solomon down ; 
and though I won’t say a poor widow with five childer in the work- 
hus’ is a high position, still there’s one thing I always feel thankful 
for, which is if one’s husband is dead he cannot cut one’s throat 
or break one’s head, as so many do, and that’s something, Mrs 
Moony.’ 

‘ Mrs Moony need not be afraid of the workhouse,’ smiled Mary. 
‘ I have spoken to my brother already, and as for Tommy here, he 
is coming to live with me, and be a little page-boy in two years 
more.’ 

Tommy smiled complacently at this prospect. Mary was a great 
friend now to all the children, and used to nurse the baby in her 
arms for hours, walking up and down the cottage with it crowing 
in her arms. 

‘ I must say she’s a pretty creature,’ said Mrs Draper, looking 
with mournful admiration at Mary’s tall, stately, lithe figure. ‘ But 
good looks don’t last, Mrs Moony, any more than last year’s flowers.’ 

Mary, however, at this time made a conquest, and received a 
proposal, in spite of the brief tenure of earthly loveliness. 

‘You have touched my ’art, Miss Fletcher,’ said Mr Joseph 


84 Out of Eden, 

Thirlwell to her one evening in the gloaming, when he had been 
sent down with the pills. ‘ 1 have never felt it before — I don’t say 
I haven’t flirted ; I admit I have — but it was not from the ’art.’ 
And Mr Thirlwell looked unutterable things at Mary with his blue 
eyes. 

Mary began to laugh. 

‘ Don’t laugh, please,’ continued the young doctor ; ‘ I’m in 
earnest — I mean it — you are worthy of a fellow’s love, you are, 
indeed ; and though I haven’t much to offer — in fact, scarcely any- 
thing to speak of at present, I may have prospects. Yes, Miss 
Mary, I may have prospects !’ 

‘ Do not talk nonsense,’ said Mary. 

‘ It’s not nonsense, it’s truth,’ said Mr Thirlwell. 

But at this point his declaration was interrupted by Mrs Draper, 
who had been in the inner room, and who now appeared, to the 
extreme discomfiture of the young doctor. 

‘ I hope I don’t interrupt anything serious ? ’ mildly asked Mrs 
Draper, ‘ but I think Maria Rose, the second little girl, has been 
seized.’ 

Maria Rose’s ‘ seizure ’ did not prove serious, but it put an end 
for the time to Mr Thirlwell’s love-making, and before he had any 
chance of renewing it, Mary had left the cottage. 

She had been there about eight days, when one morning Dr 
Humphrey walked in, looking a little graver even than his wont. 

‘ I want you to go home. Miss Fletcher,’ he said, very quietly, 
‘ for I do not think that Robert is well, and he should have some- 
one to look after him.’ 

‘ Robert ! ’ exclaimed Mary, and her beautiful complexion paled 
in a moment. ‘What is the matter, doctor?’ 

‘ He’s got a touch of fever, I think,’ answered Dr Humphrey, 
and Mary gave an absolute cry when she heard the words. 

‘ Not — fever !’ she faltered. 

* I’m afraid so,’ said Arthur Humphrey. ‘ I have noticed he has 
not been well for the last few days, and this morning he sent for 
me. Don’t look like that. Miss Fletcher — he’s a strong, fine, young 
fellow — and there is no danger yet.’ 

But Mary had sunk down on a seat and covered her face. 

‘ I have given it to him,’ she said. ‘ I never thought of Robert 
when I came. Oh ! tell me — is he really, really ill?’ 

‘ He is ill enough to require you at home,’ said Arthur Humphrey 
gently. ‘ Come, you must not give way now — we have been all 
thinking you a heroine, and you must keep up your character.’ 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE DOCTOR COMMITS HIMSELF. 

Breathless, pale and trembling, half-an-hour later Mary entered 
her brother’s cottage. She had run nearly the whole way ; refusing 


The Doctor commits Himself, 8 $ 

to wait until Dr Humphrey sent Robert’s pony-chaise for her, refus- 
ing to wait a moment, and had hurried out without a word of fare- 
well to the poor woman she had watched and waited on now for so 
many days. 

‘ My brother is ill,’ she said to Mrs Draper, as she was hastily 
putting on her hat, and that lady immediately gave a resigned sigh. 

‘ Ay, ay,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘ some of us was sure to 
take it, and I thought he had a very death-like look ! ’ 

With these ominous words ringing in her ears Mary ran home. 
Dr Humphrey did not offer to accompany her, for he was unwilling 
to give any cause for gossip. 

‘ I will see Robert in an hour,’ he said, kindly. ‘ Now you must 
not be foolish. He will be all right presently, and he will have a 
famous nurse.’ 

But Mary gave no answering smile to the doctor’s. The idea of 
Robert’s illness was terrible to her. 

‘ I have given it to him,’ she kept repeating to herself as she went 
swiftly along the narrow path by the lake ; and then she began to 
question herself about what had been her true motive in going to 
nurse Mrs Moony. 

‘ I went for pride ; yes, I believe for pride,’ moaned poor Mary. 
‘ I went to show them all that though they despise me and look 
down on me, that I dare do what none of them had courage to do 
— and — and I may have killed Robert.’ 

This thought was absolute agony to her. She always had loved 
Robert dearly, remembering the kind brother who used to come for 
her at school, and take her out on days of pleasure, before she knew 
the fatal blight that rested upon her name and his. She remem- 
bered asking Robert about their dead mother, and how the lad had 
blushed and evaded her questions. A hundred ties of kindness and 
early affection bound these two together. Mary had known no 
other relation or friend. She had been told she was an orphan with 
an only brother, and when the truth by degrees dawned on her mind 
as she grew to womanhood, Robert had soothed and comforted her 
bitter, passionate grief and shame as best he could. 

Then came the days when she had seen his heart’s best love go 
from her, and when she began to understand she could not fill his 
life, and that Florence Chester was almost everything to him. She 
had struggled with her jealoufy, she had tried to do her best for 
Florence, and had tried to believe her good and pure for Robert’s 
sake. Florence had charmed her as she charmed nearly everyone 
whom she cared to win. But Mary had never been satisfied. She 
told herself it was her jealous love for Robert, and the knowledge 
of Robert’s deep-absorbing attachment that made her sometimes 
hard, and doubtful of Florence. So she tried to be just, and Robert 
little guessed how Mary had conquered herself, when she pressed 
Florence to come to see them, and made her welcome when she 
came. Man-like he thought ‘ poor Molly was a little bit jealous 
sometimes,’ but he gave her no credit for the effort she had made to 
stifle her own selfish feelings, and think only of his happiness and love. 

Her terror and agony, then, at the idea that she had brought ill 


86 Out of Eden, 

to this beloved brother was something pitiable to behold. She was 
white, she was gasping, when she reached the cottage, yet when 
she arrived there, and entered the parlour where Robert was lying 
on a couch, there was nothing very alarming in his appearance. 

He got up to receive her with a smile. 

‘ Why, Molly,* he said, ‘ whoever expected to see you ?* 

‘Dr Humphrey said you were not well,’ panted Mary, ‘and — 
and, of course, I came at once.’ 

‘ Well, I am not over well,’ answered Robert. ‘ I have such a 
terrible weight on my head somehow.’ And he put his hand to his 
head, and gave a weary sigh. 

Mary went up to him and laid her trembling hand on his fore- 
head, and turned faint and cold when she felt that burning brow. 

‘ It’s hot, isn’t it?’ said Robert ; and once more he lay back on 
the couch. ‘ I am glad you have come, Molly. I want someone 
to bathe it for me, and I fancy if I had some wet bandages it would 
be better.’ 

Choking back the miserable emotion of her heart, Mary at once 
began to attend to her brother. She went out of the room to get 
what she wanted, and with a moan Robert turned on his pillow as 
soon as she was gone. A dull sense of wretchedness oppressed him. 
The first sharp agony perhaps was over, blunted by bodily weak- 
ness and pain, but still the bitter sting was there. He had loved 
Florence deeply, passionately, unreasonably. Ever since he had 
known her he had tried to make himself worthy of her, and had 
lived a true, pure, and upright life. 

When she first refused him, he felt stunned ; he scarcely realised 
all that he had lost. But as days went on he recognised this ; he 
had lost faith in human nature, in himself. He looked in the glass 
(not women alone indulge in this vanity) and mentally compared 
his straight features, and his tall, well-formed figure to the some- 
what bloated coarse face of the short, stout young man who had 
been preferred before him. But he knew it was not the man, but 
what the man could give that she had chosen. Many a time he 
laughed bitterly as he thought of this — to be my lady ! For this 
Florence had given up a strong, tender, passionate love. Robert 
•had loved her more like a romantic true-hearted girl loves, than as 
most men love. The lonely country life he led, and his complete 
devotion to her, had fostered all the sentiment and romance of his 
nature, until his love had been like dT religion, filling his heart with 
high resolves and noble thoughts. 

And now he knew what a fool he had been ! He had given gold 
for brass, and faith for vanity and folly. He grew hard, bitter, 
and contemptuous. She had dragged him down by her own 
degradation. 

He made up his mind to leave Weirmere. He had enough to 
live on, and he told himself he would live, and not spend his life 
sighing and pining after a dream. It was all a dream ; women 
were all alike ; the old cry of the disappointed and weary was for 
ever on his lips ; his idol was shattered, and behold, everything now 
lay covered with dust I 


The Doctor commits Himself, 87 

And to add to his unhappy frame of mind, he now began to feel 
seriously ill. His head felt weighted with lead, he had a burning 
thirst, and his appetite totally failed him. But he said it was 
nothing ; he quenched his thirst, and his head ached more and 
more, and finally he sent for Dr Humphrey, who told him he had 
got a touch of fever, and that he must take care, and go to bed. 

Dr Humphrey went straight to Mary after seeing her brother. 
He had seen at a glance how ill Robert was, and knew that he re- 
quired nursing, and that his sister ought to be with him. But he 
was unprepared for Mary’s bitter grief and self-reproach at his 
news. When, according to his promise, he called an hour later at 
the cottage, he found Mary outwardly composed certainly, but 
looking so pale and haggard, and so different to her ordinary cold, 
proud, beautiful self, that his heart was filled with compassion, and 
not a little tenderness, for the woman he had determined never to 
think of any more. 

However, he was forced now to think of her and of Robert. 
She followed him, pale and trembling, into the passage after 
he had seen Robert, and laid a cold, shaking hand upon his arm. 

This action, so unlike her usual haughty reserve, touched the 
doctor’s steeled heart. 

‘ Is he very ill?’ she faltered, and Arthur Humphrey put his own 
hand in hers as he answered her. 

‘No,’ he said. ‘And what is the matter with you?’ he added, 
very kindly. ‘ Come, Miss Mary, this will never do. I can’t have 
a nurse who looks so doleful. I must send my friend Mrs Draper, 
to try to enliven Robert.’ 

Mary tried to smile, but tears came into her eyes instead. 

* I — I blame myself,’ she said. 

* You must not and ought not to do so,’ answered Dr Humphrey. 

‘ These things are not in our hands, Miss Mary — we can but do our 
best — you acted very nobly and unselfishly. And now, you must 
take care of Robert and yourself.’ 

The doctor ended his speech rather abruptly, for that strange 
feeling of tenderness which he could not drive away swelled in 
his heart as he looked at Mary’s wet eyes and pale anxious face. 

He gave her minute directions how to attend on Robert, and pro- 
mised to call again at night ; and then, thoughtful and absorbed, 
he went away. He was so silent and absent at dinner that his 
mother inquired if there was anything the matter with him, but Dr 
Arthur only smiled and shook his head. 

They heard, however, before the evening was over, that Robert 
Fletcher had taken what was supposed to be typhus fever, and 
that he had caught it from sitting in the Moonys’ infected cottage 
with his sister Mary, who had gone there to nurse the forsaken and 
stricken woman. 

The ladies at Lansdowne Lodge knew about Mary’s ‘folly’ 
before. They had heard from the admiring Mr Thirlyvell. ‘I 
don’t care who was her mother. Miss Tomkins !’ exclaimed the 
enthusiastic young doctor, ‘ but there is that beautiful young 
creature, with one of the little pauper babies on her arm, feeding, 


88 


Out of Eden» 

yes, ma’am, actually feeding a dead cobbler’s wife with beef* tea, 
made by her own fair hands ! I know I would like to be ill under 
such circumstances,’ laughed the young fellow, with a blush all over 
his fresh, comely face. 

‘ It may be good of her. I do not say it is not good,’ replied 
Miss Tomkins stiffly, ‘ but I think it very unnecessary ; certainly 
her mother’s connection with the lower classes (though I do not 
like to speak on such subjects) may give her an interest in this poor 
family which well-born people cannot naturally have ; but I think 
it’s tempting Providence to go near a fever.’ 

Young Thirlwell gave a short laugh. 

‘ I’m not great at the Bible, I admit,’ he said, ‘but I’d a Scotch 
aunt who was, and I think I’ve heard Aunt Jeanie quote a certain 
text of Scripture, Miss Tomkins, about “visiting the poor in their 
afflictions.”’ And again Mr Thirlwell laughed. 

Miss Tomkins gave her head a little toss. 

‘ Really, Mr Thirlwell,’ she said, ‘ I do not care to be favoured 
with your Scotch aunt’s recollections,’ and the indignant old lady 
turned away, while Mr Thirlwell retired to the surgery to muse 
and apostrophise on Mary Fletcher’s charms. 

‘ I will rise for her sake,’ said the young fellow figuratively and 
actually, for as he spoke he was ascending a step-ladder to reach 
down a certain bottle from which to concoct a cooling draught, to 
be administered by Mary’s ‘fair hands,’ to poor Mrs Moony. ‘I 
will rise to eminence,’ he said, but as he rose he fell, for he over- 
balanced himself, and descended more quickly than he had risen, 
bringing down the medicine bottle and the step-ladder with him in 
his fall. 

‘ Is it fate ?’ he said, ruefully, rubbing his shins, and thinking also 
mefully of the aspirations of that organ he designated as his ‘ ’art.’ 
‘Well, I can but try,’ he determined, manfully, and again he set up 
his step-ladder, and this time successfully got what he wanted, and 
went on making his draughts and pills in a cheerful frame of mind. 

After all, this was an honest and brave love, and Mary need not 
have been ashamed to have inspired it. Mary, in the meantime, 
had never thought of it, or if she had it was with contemptuous 
amusement. But during the next few days the fact of his very ex- 
istence entirely faded from her mind, for Robert was ill, and Mary 
could think of nothing else. 

And he got worse, heavier, and more languid, and yet restless 
and uneasy. Dr Humphrey came to see him twice every day, 
and sat long, sometimes, talking to him, or rather to Mary, for 
Robert soon grew too ill to talk much, and lay groaning and moan- 
ing and waving his hot hands. He suffered a great deal of pain, 
but his half-conscious sufferings were small indeed to those of the 
pale watcher, who scarcely left his bedside, and resolutely refused 
to have anyone to assist her. 

‘ I can do it ; no one else shall go near him. Please do not ask 
me to let anyone else go near him,’ said Mary, in reply to some 
words of Dr Humphrey’s ; and the doctor had no heart to say any- 
thing more. 


The Doctor commits Himself, 89 

But he was growing each day more anxious about Robert. He 
became delirious at times, and there was generally one burden to 
his restless mutterings. 

‘ To be my lady !’ he would repeat again and again, with strange 
vehemence ; and at last one night Mary drew Dr Humphrey aside, 
and asked if he thought there could be any meaning in these 
words. 

‘ I do not know,’ answered Arthur Humphrey gravely, and he 
cast down his eyes. A strange rumour had, in fact, during the 
day reached his ears, but he did not care to distress Mary any 
further by repeating it. He had, indeed, quite sufficient to distress 
her with as it was, for it became his duty, he now considered, to 
tell her that he would like to have further advice about Robert, and 
that, with her permission, he would telegraph for an eminent 
physician from town. 

When Mary heard this she caught hold of the back of a chair in 
the parlour, where they were standing, to support herself. 

‘Then, then — you think — you think — ’ faltered Mary, with 
blanched lips, unable to utter the terrible question. 

‘ I think it would be more satisfactory,’ answered Dr Humphrey 
quietly. ‘ He is not holding out quite so well as I expected a strong 
healthy young man like Robert would have done. I wonder if any- 
thing helped to bring on this — any trouble ?’ and the doctor looked 
inquiringly at Mary. 

‘Can it be anything about Florence Chester.?’ she cried, with a 
sort of sob. ‘Oh! Dr Humphrey!’ and she caught him by the 
arm and peered with eager, anxious eyes into his face. ‘ What do 
you think ? Tell me, please tell me — his heart was set upon her — 
if she has refused him she has broken it ! ’ 

‘ Men’s hearts are not broken so easily. Miss Fletcher,’ said the 
doctor, speaking the hard words gently and tenderly, but Mary 
never noticed the tone, ‘ but something about this may have upset 
him, and predisposed him to illness, and there is no doubt, I think, 
that he liked Miss Florence.’ 

‘ Liked her !’ repeated Mary, half bitterly, half sadly, ‘he loved 
the very ground she trod on. I grew nothing to him — I knew it 
— but what matter if he only gets well — ’ 

As Mary spoke she suddenly broke down, revealing thus her own 
miserable doubts and fears, and irrepressible sobs seemed almost 
choking her. 

‘ Hush ! you must not give way,’ said Arthur Humphrey, and he 
put his arm round her to support her. ‘ Hush ! my poor, poor girl,’ 
and he bent over her, his face almost touching hers. 

‘Forgive me,’ sobbed Mary, who was quite overcome, ‘I — I — 
know I am foolish— but — but— he is all I have.’ 

Arthur Humphrey was in love with her — in love with the beauti- 
ful woman sobbing on his breast— and he suddenly drew closer and 
nearer. 

‘Do not say he is all you have,’ he half whispered. ‘Mary, 
you have someone else j Mary, I did not mean to speak to you, 
but — ’ 


90 Out of Eden, 

He paused, for Mary had lifted her head, and with a sort of 
shiver drew herself away from him. 

‘ I — I am better,’ she said. ‘ I will go and see after Robert. I 
am ashamed of myself thus to give way.’ 

And when he began to reflect. Dr Humphrey also felt ashamed. 
He had no right to say what he had said, he told himself, unless 
he meant to ask Mary to be his wife. And if it were right now 
that he should ask her (having now so committed himself), ought 
anything to prevent him ? 

‘Utter folly, too,’ pooh-poohed the doctor, as he sat alone that 
night in his study. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A sister’s prayer. 

Robert Fletcher had been ill ten days, and all the little com- 
munity about Weirmere knew that he was ill. They knew also 
that he was getting worse ; that Dr Humphrey had telegraphed for 
a doctor from town, and that this doctor’s opinion had not been 
very favourable. They knew, too, that Mary Fletcher never left 
her brother day or night, and that she was worn with watching and 
with grief. 

They heard all this from Mr Thirlwell. The doctor’s assistant 
was talkative if the doctor was not. In fact, Mr Thirlwell could 
not live without talking. He was ‘ sociable,’ he said of himself, and 
he no doubt was. He loved his fellow-men and women, and he 
loved to talk about them. So he talked about Robert and Mary, 
and the great doctor from town, and told various things he ought 
never to have mentioned. 

Among others with whom he conversed on these subjects was 
Appleby, Lady Blunt’s butler. Appleby also did not object to a 
little agreeable conversation about his neighbours, and ever since 
that morning on which Mr Thirlwell had related, round-eyed with 
horror, all the ghastly details of Mr Chester’s death, the young 
surgeon and the butler had been on friendly terms. Appleby was 
interested about Mr Fletcher, both on his own account and his 
lady’s, and was glad to hear on such good authority as the young 
doctors all the particulars of Robert’s illness. 

Lady Blunt had frequently sent Appleby down to the cottage 
during the last ten days to inquire after Robert, but it must be 
admitted the butler did not quite relish these visits. He was a 
large, stout man, ‘ rather feverish subject,’ Thirlwell jocularly told 
him, and Appleby felt that it was every man’s duty to have a due 
regard for his own health. So he preferred to make his inquiries 
in the evening, at a certain roadside public-house, where the doc- 
tor’s assistant was not above sometimes dropping in for a ‘ social 
glass.’ 

There was another attraction also at this public-house, in the 


A Sister's Pj'ayer. 91 

shape of a pretty, shiny, rosy, plump barmaid, that had once also 
helped to lure Mr Thirlwelhs steps often in the evening to the 
‘ Welcome Rose,’ in which rather remarkable name the alehouse 
gloried. But since Mr Thirlwell had fallen in love with Mary 
Fletcher he had vowed to abjure the snares of the ‘Welcome Rose.’ 
He would become a teetotaller for Mary’s sake, and he would give 
up chucking pretty barmaids under the chin. He adhered to the 
first resolution for one day, but on the second, feeling tired and 
thirsty towards evening, he yielded, and turned his steps in the 
direction of the ‘ Welcome Rose.’ He sipped his whisky and gazed 
contemplatively at the round white chin presented to his gaze, but ^ 
he resisted the temptation in view, and the barmaid wondered 
what had come over the ‘ little doctor.’ 

Presently Appleby, the butler, strolled in, and inquired about 
‘ Mr Fletcher.’ 

Thirlwell shook his head. 

‘It’s a bad case,’ he said ; ‘a fine strong young fellar like that 
should make more head against it. I saw him to-day’ (Appleby 
slightly fidgeted and withdrew from such close proximity with the 
young surgeon), ‘and he’s quite off his head. Dr Paget comes 
down again to-morrow, and 1 hope we’ll have some better news.’ 

‘ I’m sure it’s a bad thing,’ said Appleby ; ‘ my lady’s very 
anxious about him — it would be a queer business now, wouldn’t 
it,’ he added,* if my lady was to lose both her agents one after 
the other, so sudden like ? ’ 

‘ Well, we mustn’t kill poor Fletcher yet,’ replied Mr Thirlwell ; 
‘we must hope for the best. While there’s life there’s hope, you 
know, and all that sort ; but talking about Lady Blunt, Appleby, 
reminds me — I say, the young baronet’s a gay lot 1 ’ And Mr 
Thirlwell winked. 

Appleby shook his head. 

‘ It runs in his blood,’ he said. ‘ His father before was no better 
than he should be.’ 

‘ Well, this young chap is a lively one, anyhow. He’s not sup- 
posed to be in this neighbourhood, is he, at present ? ’ 

‘He’s abroad, I heard my lady say, or just going abroad, 
anyhow.’ 

‘ Well, he may be just going abroad, but he ain’t gone. I don’t 
want to spoil sport, you know ’ (and again Mr Thirlwell winked) ; 

‘ but he wasn’t far from Oniston yesterday morning, I can swear ! ’ 
And Mr Thirlwell laughed. 

‘ At Oniston ! ’ repeated the butler, utterly astonished. 

‘ Yes, with a bit of muslin, as they say ; but in this case it wasn’t 
muslin, but black cloth or bombazine, or whatever women call their 
mourning garments, not very far from his side. I didn’t see the 
lady’s face, but I saw the young baronet’s. Don’t you go and make 
mischief, you know, old fellar, but there he was — I’m afraid he’s 
not a good boy ! ’ And Mr Thirlwell laughed again. 

But Appleby gave no responding chuckle. He sat speechless. 
He was revolving certain facts in his mind ; certain incidents, and 
‘ laying this thing to that,’ as he called it. 


92 Out of Eden, 

‘Are you sure,’ he said, at length, ‘quite sure you saw Sir 
Harry ?’ 

‘No mistake,’ answered the young surgeon positively. ‘The 
doctor sent me over on business to see Dr Watson, something 
about the Moonys’ case, and after I had been at Watson’s I thought 
I would just look in at the “ White Hart ” to have a sip. As I 
went in, coming down the hotel staircase was our friend the baronet 
— I could swear to him — and behind him, with him in fact, a 
young person in black. I just caught a glimpse of her, for she 
turned round and ran up the stairs again, and Sir Harry turned his 
face to look after her, so I saw him plain enough — there’s no 
mistake about it — he was there.’ 

‘ About twelve ? ’ asked the butler, almost under his breath. 

‘ Right, my boy ! about twelve ; why, you old sinner, I believe 
you know all about it ! ’ And Mr Thirlwell laughed uproariously. 

‘No,’ said the butler, still looking very grave; ‘but I was 
thinking of something that might have some connection with what 
you say.’ 

The plump barmaid by this time had got quite tired of being 
neglected. She therefore approached Mr Thirlwell with her pretty 
chin in the air. 

‘ Well, have you finished your secrets yet 1 ’ she asked, coquettishly. 

‘ No secrets,’ answered Mr Thirlwell ; I was just telling Appleby 
here about poor Fletcher’s illness ; of course, I could have no 
secrets from you.’ 

‘ Of course not,’ said the pretty barmaid. 

‘ Well, I think I’ll leave you young people to have your chat,’ 
said Appleby, now preparing to depart, and Mr Thirlwell (in spite 
of his love for Mary) was weak enough to stay. 

Appleby went away with care upon his brow. What he had just 
heard about Sir Harry was an absolute shock to him. He knew of 
most things that occurred at Weirmere Hall, and he knew that 
Lady Blunt had forbidden any engagement to take place between 
her son and Miss Florence Chester. How he knew all this is no 
matter, but he did know, and he knew the meaning, too, of the 
threat Lady Blunt had used to Florence to compel her obedience. 
He had seen Mr Chester come and go on his last visit to the Hall, 
and he had also overheard some of my lady’s bitter words to her 
late agent ; words that he had promised her he would never hear 
again. With all this knowledge, the fact that he had just heard 
was a revelation to the old servant. Sir Harry living secretly at 
Oniston meant mischief. The butler also had a reason for in- 
quiring at what time Mr Thirlwell had seen Sir Harry on the pre- 
vious day, for yesterday, in the morning, the sisters Bessie and 
Florence Chester had started for the little town, on a shopping 
expedition they said, and in Appleby’s hearing they had declined 
the use of the carriage to go there, though Lady Blunt had pressed 
them to take it. 

It was five or six miles to Oniston from Weirmere Hall, but at a 
point of the lake a steamer daily called, and by this steamer the 
sisters had proposed to go. Appleby remembered that twice lately 


A Sister's Prayer, 93 

* the young ladies ’ had been absent on similar expeditions, and he 
had heard them talking of some dresses they were having made at 
Oniston. 

‘ Dresses, indeed ! ’ thought the butler indignantly, as he walked 
home from the ‘ Welcome Rose.’ ‘ I wish it mayn’t mean mischief ; 
I’m sorry for my poor lady.’ 

He was sorry. ‘Father and son alike,’ he kept repeating to 
himself as he went on ; and then a serious question arose in his 
own mind as to how he should act under the circumstances. 

He was attached to his lady. He had lived with her for years 
and years, and never received anything but kindly consideration 
from her hands. But the other side of the question was this — Sir 
Harry was the heir. 

If Appleby told Lady Blunt that her son was secretly living five 
or six miles away, and no doubt also secretly meeting the young 
lady whom Lady Blunt had positively forbidden him to marry, then 
though he might win thanks and praises from my lady for his com- 
munication, he certainly would win neither from the future possessor 
of the Hall. 

‘And life is so uncertain,’ sighed the butler, thinking sadly enough 
how greatly Lady Blunt had changed since Mr Chester’s sudden 
death. 

He was still uncertain what to do when he reached the Hall. 
And he had not much time to make his decision in, for scarcely 
had he arrived when Lady Blunt sent for him, she was so anxious 
to hear hpw Robert Fletcher was. 

Appleby told his news ; Robert was very ill, dangerously ill, the 
doctor from London was coming down to-morrow, and so on. 

Lady Blunt was quite distressed to hear the account he gave 
her. She liked Robert, liked the handsome, pleasant- mannered 
young man, who treated her with a sort of chivalrous deference 
that old as well as young women care to receive. And to hear of 
his dangerous illness and to know of his bitter disappointment 
about Florence Chester were both very grievous to Lady Blunt. 

‘ I am very, very sorry,’ she said ; ‘ we must hope for better news 
to-morrow. You left my card and my compliments for Miss 
Fletcher, I hope, Appleby, when you made the inquiries.’ 

For a moment Appleby hesitated, then he spoke the truth. 

‘ I didn’t go to the cottage to-night, my lady,’ he said. ‘ I met 
Mr Thirl well, the doctor’s young man, you know, and as he had 
seen poor Mr Fletcher during the day, I thought he would be better 
able to tell me than the servant girl.’ 

Lady Blunt’s face flushed, and then grew pale at the mention of 
Mr Thirlwell’s name. She remembered at that moment the only 
time that she had ever spoken to him. 

‘ Be sure to leave my card to-morrow, then,’ she said, and she 
turned away from Appleby ; but to her surprise he still lingered as 
if he had something to say. 

Lady Blunt looked at him, and then spoke. 

‘ You can go now, Appleby,’ she said ; but Appleby seemed in no 
hurry to accept her permission. 


94 Out of Eden, 

‘ I beard something else to-night, my lady,’ he at last began, aftei 
clearing his throat ; ‘ something, I am sure, I cannot tell whether 
i, is right to repeat to you or not ; but I’ve lived a long time with 
you, my lady, so I hope you’ll excuse the liberty I take !’ 

‘ What is it, Appleby ?’ asked Lady Blunt, quickly and nervously, 
and again her face flushed, and her lips trembled. 

‘ It may be only gossip and nonsense,’ hesitated Appleby, ‘but, 
still, I think it right that you should know, as you will be the best 
judge about the truth of it. I heard to-night that Sir Harry — ’ 

‘ Hush ! I will hear nothing ; not a word about my son,’ said 
Lady Blunt, almost sternly. 

‘ Very well, my lady,’ said Appleby, with a bow, and he had 
turned to leave the room when Lady Blunt suddenly called him back. 

‘ It is no ill news,’ she asked, ‘ is it ? Only gossip and folly .?’ 

‘ Indeed it is no ill news, my lady — only something Mr Thirlwell — ’ 

But Lady Blunt stopped him with a gesture. 

‘ I do not wish to hear,’ she said, and Appleby retired discom- 
fited. deeply regretting that the effect of the whisky at the ‘ Welcome 
Rose ’ had made him so unwisely loquacious. 

And his words had left a sting behind them, though Lady Blunt 
had been too proud to hear his tale. She sat down and covered her 
face with her thin hand ; she was thinking of the past, of her early 
married days, when whispers and innuendoes had reached her ears, 
and when then, as now, she had refused to listen to them, until she 
was forced to believe them true. 

Presently she went upstairs, and sat with the girls, and told them 
about Robert Fletcher’s dangerous condition, and she noticed 
that Florence grew pale, and bit her lips to hide her emotion as 
she listened. 

‘We must hope for the best,’ said Lady Blunt, looking kindly at 
Florence, who sat with drooping eyelids and moistened eyes. 

‘ Poor Mary ! ’ said Florence, almost below her breath. 

‘ She must see now, I should think, her extreme folly and im- 
prudence in going to nurse those wretched people,’ said Bessie ; 
and I cannot say I pity her, though I am sincerely sorry for Mr 
Fletcher.’ 

Florence did not speak again, but she rose hastily and left the 
room, and going to her own, she sat down and wrote a few words 
to Mary, to tell her how deeply and truly she sympathised with 
her. 

She sent this letter by the post, and Mary received it on the 
following morning. She received it as she was waiting, pale and 
heartsick, for the London doctor to arrive ; dreading, yet longing, 
for him to come. 

Robert was no better ; even Arthur Humphrey was forced to 
admit this ; but he was quieter and weaker, and he seemed to re- 
cognise Mary, and looked from her face to Arthur Humphrey’s 
with a painful expression that was indescribably miserable to Mary 
to see. 

‘ I am sure he has something on his mind — something he wishes 
to say,’ she told the doctor, in piteous accents. 


A Sister's Prayer, 95 

Dr Humphrey thought so too. He bent over Robert and took 
his hand. 

‘ My dear fellow/ he said, ‘ is there anything you want 

‘ If I die/ began Robert, as if trying to collect his thoughts, ‘after 
Lady Blunt’s death — Mary — ’ 

But he seemed to forget after this. He began to murmur indis- 
tinctly ; the effort had evidently been too much for him, and as 
Mary stood watching him in tearless agony, Florence Chester’s 
letter was placed in her hands. 

She read it mechanically ; read it and looked at Robert, and then 
a sudden thought flashed into her mind. 

She left Robert with Dr Humphrey for a few moments, and went 
to her own room and knelt down. She was white, she was tearless, 
she was worn with watching and grief, and she prayed for him 
almost as those who pray without hope. 

‘ Oh ! spare him ! spare him ! ’ 

She could say no more, it was the one miserable cry, wrung from 
her almost distracted heart ; but as she prayed the thought of 
Florence again recurred to her, and there, on her knees, she 
wrote a few agonised and entreating words to the girl, who had 
stolen her brother’s heart from her— to the girl he had loved too 
well. 

‘ Dear Florence, — He is very ill/ she wrote, ‘ and I am almost 
mad with grief. Florence, you know how well he loves you. Will 
you send him something, just some little token of your love, and 
perhaps it may save him still ? He looks troubled and uneasy, as 
if his mind were ill at ease, and I am sure that he is thinking of you. 
If I could but tell him how anxious you were, that you loved him 
ever so little, I think he would understand. He keeps looking and 
looking as if he wanted something, and I know it is to hear of 
you. O Florence, pity me 1 I have nothing but Robert— and I gave 
him this illness with my mad folly. Please send me a flower, any- 
thing you have worn, that I may put it in his dear hand, and tell 
him you sent it with your love. Do not refuse this. — Yours faith- 
fully, . Mary Fletcher.’ 

She sent her letter away, and Dr Paget, the London doctor, 
came, and he still would give no decided opinion about Robert ; so 
at least Arthur Humphrey mercifully told her after he was gone. 
And thus the long day passed in the silent, darkened room. Robert 
lay in a sort of stupor, murmuring at times about his schoolboy days, 
and the river where he used to bathe, and the matches he had 
played. He had forgotten all his present pain and the aching care 
of his manhood. He was a boy again in his fevered dreams, and 
maybe he saw once more the sunshine fall on the green fields, and 
dance on the clear pools as he had seen it long ago. 

It had got rumoured in the neighbourhood, after the London 
doctor’s visit, that he was dying. No one in the household had 
absolutely said this, but it was understood that Dr Paget’s opinion 
was unfavourable, and this impression was conveyed by the sympa- 


96 Out of Eden. 

thising Appleby to Lady Blunt, who was greatly disturbed by the 
news. 

Arthur Humphrey had been constantly at the cottage during the 
day. He dare not tell Mary that Robert’s life was trembling in 
a balance, and that ever so faint a change might wing his spirit 
away from her. She sat there watching him hour after hour. It 
was a sunshiny day, and a robin kept singing in the garden outside, 
and Mary heard its song vaguely, like something in a dream. She 
saw the doctor come into the room and go out, and she never spoke 
to him. Once he laid his hand on her shoulder and made her 
drink some wine and swallow some soup, but he never asked her to 
go away. 

And so the light passed into darkness, and still Robert lay be- 
tween the confines of two worlds. Did Mary half recognise this.'’ 
Did the dark angel hovering over the room cast som^ pre-shadow 
with its sombre wings ? Noiselessly and in silence death draws 
near, yet do we not feel its presence, though we may resolutely try 
to close the eyes and ears of our inner sense against the invisible 
foe waiting to snatch our beloved from our arms 1 

It was night, and yet no change. Dr Humphrey knew, if Mary 
did not, that in a moment Robert’s spirit might now flutter and go 
out. He, too, sat watching by the bed, laying his hand at intervals 
on the sick man’s wrist, and counting the beats of the feeble, 
fluctuating pulse. He had his hand on Robert’s arm when a low 
rap came to the bedroom door, and Dr Humphrey rose to respond 
to the summons. 

He had a short, low-spoken conference outside, and then he 
came back into the room, and approaching Mary whispered a few 
words in her ear. 

‘ Florence Chester is here,’ he said, ‘you had better go and speak 
to her for a moment.’ 

Mary’s reply was to look in Arthur Humphrey’s face, with a 
mute, imploring question in her eyes. 

‘ I will stay with him,’ he answered, in the tender tone of com- 
mand which men unconsciously assume to women they love in any 
great crisis of their lives ; ‘you had better go, Mary, and if there is 
the least change I will call you.’ 

He had never called her Mary before, nor touched her as he now 
touched her, lifting her up with his arms, for her limbs were be- 
numbed and cramped with sitting motionless so long, and it was 
but with feeble and tottering steps that Mary could cross the room, 
though the name of Florence Chester had brought some hope to her 
almost hopeless heart. 

She went downstairs holding by the banister, and as she entered 
the little parlour below, a girl, wrapped in a waterproof, ran towards 
her, and would have folded Mary in her arms, but Mary waved her 
back. 

‘ No, no, don’t come near me,’ she said. 

‘ Oh, Mary ! ’ cried Florence, with a half-sob, and evidently deeply 
agitated, ‘I am so sorry— so dreadfully sorry — I got your letter. 
Oh, Mary ! what can I do ’ 


The Green-eyed Monster, 97 

* What have you brought me ? ’ said Mary, in a hoarse and broken 
voice. ‘ Florence, give me something of yours — to put in his hand 
even if he dies ! ’ 

‘ Oh ! is he so ill as that ?’ said Florence, bursting into passion- 
ate tears. ‘ Mary, I will never forgive myself— if I had but known 
— but known — ’ 

‘ I — I — do not understand,’ faltered Mary. 

‘ No — well, it is no matter ! ’ wept Florence. ‘ I have done what 
I cannot undo ; but, Mary, I hope still — see, I have brought him 
some roses — I got them out of the conservatory ; give him them, 
and tell him from me, I hope, I pray, he will soon be well.’ 

‘ May I give your love, Florence ? May 1 tell him you love him, 
and that when he gets well you will be glad, be glad !’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Florence, though slowly, ‘you may tell him that.’ 

‘And you will marry him?’ asked Mary eagerly ; but Florence 
covered her face with her hands, and made no reply. 

‘ Florence, will you not marry him if he lives ? ’ again asked Mary, 
in a voice sharpened with agony. ‘ Will you not do this to save 
him ? to spare me what is worse than death ?’ 

Then Florence fell on her knees with an exceedingly bitter cry. 

‘ I cannot ! ’ she said. ‘ Don’t ask me, Mary ; if I could save 
him with my life I would ; but I cannot marry him. I cannot 
marry him now.’ 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. 

Florence Chester was gone, the roses lay unheeded on the 
floor, and Mary fell upon her knees with streaming eyes and up- 
lifted hands. 

‘ Human love has failed me,’ she cried. ‘ O Father, Father, let 
not Thy love fail me too.’ 

She knew not how long she prayed. We count not these 
moments of anguish when our miserable cries soar upwards and 
surely reach an ever-listening Ear. 

‘ Oh, spare him, spare him ! ’ she cried it again and again. She 
was yet on her knees when the door softly opened, and Arthur 
Humphrey came into the room. She started up when she saw him, 
and ran forward with parted lips, and with a strange gentleness 
and tenderness of manner he took her in his arms. 

‘ I bring good news,’ he said, almost in a whisper ; ‘ there is a 
change for the better. Robert is asleep and his pulse has risen. I 
hope now for the best.’ 

Mary tottered and could not stand. She did not faint outright, 
but the room grew black around her and a cold dew arose upon 
her brow ; she tried to speak, but no word came from her clammy 
lips, and Arthur Humphrey, seeing how it was with her, half 
carried her to a couch, and got some water, and bathed her face 
and hands. 


G 


98 Out of Eden. 

She was quite worn out, and as Arthur Humphrey knelt beside 
her (no doubt he could bathe her hands more easily in that position) 
heavy teardrops began to roll down her pale cheeks, and one of 
these tears fell on the doctor’s hand. He looked up, and then bent 
down his head, kissing the cold hands in his clasp as he had never 
kissed a woman’s hand before. 

A faint colour fluttered into Mary’s cheeks, a slight quiver crept 
through her frame. 

‘ You must take some rest now ; indeed you must,’ said Dr 
Humphrey, rising, and controlling a very strong impulse to kisr 
Mary’s sweet face as well as her hands. ‘ I will sit up with Robert 
— and I promise to call you if — ’ 

No. Mary would not leave her post. Her weakness was past, 
and she rose, pale and faint indeed, but still able to stand, and in a 
low, fluttering voice she told the doctor she would go to Robert. 

‘Very well,’ he said, smiling, ‘a wilful woman, you know — but 
where did all these roses come from t Did Florence Chester bring 
them for Robert ? ’ 

Mary bowed her head, but she did not speak. 

‘ Take one up with you then. I fancy when Robert wakens, 
nothing will please him so much as to know that pretty Miss Flo 
had sent him a rose.’ 

And the doctor picked up a rose as he spoke, but with a sudden 
gesture Mary pulled it from his hand. 

‘No,’ she said, ‘no, do not deceive him — she had no right to 
bring him roses — none, none, to come here 1 ’ 

The doctor looked at Mary in surprise. 

‘ She is not worthy of him,’ she continued, her voice trembling 
with weakness and emotion. ‘ If she had been worthy, she would 
not have acted as she has done.’ 

‘And what has she done?’ asked the doctor. ‘ I heard a queer 
story about her the other day ; but it’s no business of mine.’ 

‘ No,’ answered Mary ; ‘and now let us go to Robert’ 

They went up the stairs together, and as they did so, to the 
doctor’s consternation, Mrs Draper’s dolorous figure appeared at 
the kitchen door, but with a quick sign he made her understand 
she was not wanted, and Mrs Draper accordingly disappeared be- 
fore Mary saw her. 

‘ Dear, dear,’ said Mrs Draper, returning into the kitchen, and 
addressing Margaret, Mary’s maid, ‘he seems very kind — I 
shouldn’t wonder if it was a match now,’ she continued ; ‘and to 
marry a doctor is a saving in one way, considering the many ills 
poor flesh is heir to ; but then there’s another side of the question 
to be considered. You see they have their pills and their poisons 
that handy, that in any little family disagreement they might give 
you a dose, and you wouldn’t know where you were till you woke 
up in the cold grave.’ 

‘Really, Mrs Draper, you give me the shivers,’ said Margaret, 
who was young, and had a lover, and who by no means took a 
dismal view of life or matrimony. 

‘ Did I really ; I’m sure I didn’t mean it,’ answered Mrs Draper 


The Green-eyed Monster, 99 

mildly ; ‘but for my part, if I was Miss Mary, Td have the young 
doctor, and not the old one. Mr ThirlwelPs fresher coloured, and 
altogether more lightsome.’ And Mrs Draper sighed, thus proving 
that we generally admire contrasts. 

In the meanwhile Mary and Dr Humphrey had returned to 
Robert’s sick-room. Dr Humphrey had left Mr Thirlwell to watch 
Robert while he went down to seek Mary after Florence Chester’s 
visit; the ‘young doctor,’ as Mrs Draper called him, having 
brought down the medicine for the night. When, therefore, Mary 
entered with Dr Humphrey, Mr Thirlwell scowled, and felt like 
Othello. He rose with an indignant air and retired, after casting 
one glance of bitterness at the unconscious Mary. As he went 
downstairs he was waylaid by Mrs Draper, who came out of the 
kitchen to know if she was wanted to ‘ sit up.’ 

‘ I know nothing about it,’ answered the ruffled Mr Thirlwell. 
‘ You had better inquire of Dr Humphrey.’ 

‘ I was meaning so to do,’ answered Mrs Draper. ‘ I saw him 
going upstairs with Miss Mary, but he eyed me back into the 
kitchen, and he has a commanding eye.’ 

‘I know nothing about his eyes,’ retorted Mr Thirlwell, ‘but I 
know that his manner is not what it should be from man to man.’ 

‘ Dear me,’ said Mrs Draper, ‘ and he seems so kind-like to 
Miss Mary.’ 

‘ Humph ! ’ said the indignant Thirlwell, and he buttoned on his 
overcoat, and went out into the gusty night, his usual good-natured 
soul dark with jealousy and scorn. 

‘ It is his means,’ he said to himself gloomily; ‘he has means, 
and I have not — women prefer means — they think more of money 
than the best appearance.’ And Mr Thirlwell thought of his own 
fresh-coloured face. 

So irritated did he feel, that almost unconsciously his feet strayed 
in the direction of the ‘ Welcome Rose,’ for he felt that his system 
required soothing, and he shortly began to take a brighter view of 
humanity and of the female sex, while holding familiar converse 
with the comely nymph of the bar, and drinking the comforting 
concoction which she had prepared for him. 

While thus agreeably employed, Appleby, the butler from the 
Hall, also strolled into the ‘ Welcome Rose,’ and at once inquired 
with great interest how ‘poor Mr Fletcher’ was. 

‘We heard up at the Hall he was dying,' said Appleby, with 
genuine sympathy in his voice and manner. 

‘ Well, I don’t think he is,’ answered Thirlwell. ‘ I expect he’ll 
pull himself together yet. Dr Paget, the man from town, shook 
his head over him — but I doritt 

‘ That is good news, and my lady will be more pleased than I 
can tell you to hear it,’ said Appleby heartily. ‘ I’m sure we were 
all quite upset, and my lady the worst of us, I think, when we 
heard it was all over with him, and such a fine young man as he 
is, too.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mr Thirlwell, relapsing into gloominess, for the 
mention of Robert’s appearance recalled Mary’s beautiful face. 


100 


OtU of Eden, 

‘ They’re a handsome pair,’ continued Appleby contemplatively, 
without the least idea he was wounding Mr Thirl well’s susceptibilities. 

‘ Yes,’ again said Mr Thirlwell. ‘ But you are all alike,’ he 
added, gazing morosely at the barmaid’s pretty chin. 

‘ What do you mean, now, Mr Thirlwell ? ’ asked that damsel, 
tossing her head. 

‘ All to be bought ! ’ replied Mr Thirlwell, with a bitter laugh, 
‘at an auction — highest bidder — going, going, gone! — the man of 
means has the prize handed to him, whether it be silver, china, 
furniture, plated goods, or female charms ! ’ And again Mr Thirl- 
well laughed. 

‘ Now, really, Mr Thirlwell,’ said the barmaid, ‘one would say 
you had been disappointed in love.’ 

Mr Thirlwell was too gallant a man to allow this challenge to 
pass, and answered lightly, though with a heavy heart. 

Shortly afterwards, however, he left the ‘Welcome Rose,’ his 
short-lived hilarity over, and with the ‘green-eyed monster ’ feeding 
on his heart. He was jealous, angry with Mary, angry with every- 
one ; and when he found the two ladies at Lansdowne Lodge 
eagerly looking out for his return, or Dr Arthur’s return, the bitter- 
ness of his spirit found vent in increasing their natural alarm. 

‘Doctor.?’ he said, in answer to their inquiries, with a wicked 
wink of his blue eyes ; ‘ doctor is better engaged to-night — not 
coming home, I expect — sitting up consoling beauty.’ 

‘What do you mean, Mr Thirlwell.?’ asked Mrs Humphrey, in a 
tone of stern, repressive virtue. 

‘ Left him with Mr Fletcher,’ answered Thirlwell, slightly sobered 
by Mrs Humphrey’s awe-inspiring looks. 

‘How is that person.?’ now asked the old lady, with trembling 
lips. 

‘ That person is so — so,’ answered Mr Thirlwell, his soul wild 
with revolt at destiny, for why should he be thus questioned and 
ordered about, he asked himself. Why f and he looked at the old 
lady until she nearly dropped the candlestick out of her shaking 
hand. 

‘ Sister Ann, sister Ann 1 ’ she cried, hurrying back to her sister, 
who was not far behind her, ‘ he is intoxicated! Oh ! what shall 
we do .?’ and the poor feeble old woman wrung her hands. 

‘Get him to bed,’ whispered sister Ann; ‘you remember we 
used to get dear papa to bed— on these occasions.’ 

But Mr Thirlwell wouldn’t go to bed. He laughed at the terror 
of the old ladies ; he asserted himself, he would be ‘ trod on no 
longer,’ he said ; and further to illustrate his independence he 
asked Miss Tomkins if she would like a pill, when poor sister Ann 
peeped into the surgery to see what he was after. 

‘Oh no,’ she answered, mildly; ‘but hadn’t you better go to 
bed, Mr Thirlwell, it’s getting late?’ 

‘ Give me to drink of the waters of oblivion then, my dear 
madam,’ he said, rising theatrically, ‘ or, in common parlance, the 
whisky bottle.’ 

‘ Oh, but you’ve had enough,’ said sister Ann. 


Appleby's Neivs. ^ I0\ 

‘Enough, but I long for more,’ he answered, and sister Ann 
wisely poured out a glass, and the young doctor grew drowsy under 
its influence, and at last fell asleep and forgot his woes. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

APPLEBY’S NEWS. 

While poor sister Ann was trying to get Mr Thirl well to go to bed 
at Lansdowne Lodge, a very bitter scene was being enacted partly 
through his agency at Weirmere Hall. 

Appleby had returned there very well pleased with his news. 
Mr Fletcher was supposed to have ‘ taken a turn for the better,’ he 
went up into the drawing-room to tell my lady, and Lady Blunt 
heard this with sincere pleasure and satisfaction. 

‘ I think there can be no doubt about the correctness of it,’ said 
Appleby, ‘ for I happened to meet the young doctor — Thirlwell — 
you know, my lady, and he had just left Mr Fletcher, and he said 
that both he and Dr Humphrey thought that a most satisfactory 
change had taken place about an hour ago.’ 

‘ I am indeed pleased,’ said Lady Blunt ; and then she rose 
nervously, and began moving some books lying on the table, 
keeping her back to Appleby while she spoke. 

‘ And so young I'hirlwell told you this .?’ she said. ‘ By-the-bye, 
Appleby,’ she continued, still nervously lifting up the books, and 
putting them down, ‘ what was that gossip, or whatever it was, that 
this young man told you of — I think you said about Sir Henry — 
perhaps it is as well that I should know what is said about my son ? ’ 
And Lady Blunt now turned round, and looked at her butler, who 
cast down his eyes, and rubbed his large feet somewhat uneasily on 
the carpet. 

‘ You mean, my lady — ’ he said. 

‘ I mean what you alluded to yesterday,’ answered Lady Blunt, 
rather sharply. ‘ At the time I thought I would rather not hear, 
I did not wish to hear, but I have been thinking, my son is but a 
youth, we cannot expect an old head on such young shoulders, and 
you are an old and trusted servant, Appleby, and I feel sure you 
would not have mentioned this, unless you thought it would do 
good.’ 

Appleby cleared his throat. 

‘ I would rather cut my tongue out than vex you, my lady,’ he 
said, ‘ unless, as you say, I thought it might do some good, and I 
did think, perhaps, considering all things, you ought to hear this— ’ 

‘ Well, what is it, then } ’ asked Lady Blunt, with a somewhat 
anxious smile, as Appleby paused. 

‘ It’s a queer kind of story, my lady ; but I think the young man 
was speaking the truth. I was asking him, as perhaps you re- 
member, about Mr Fletcher, and then, quite casual-like, he said, 
♦* So the young baronet’s staying at Oniston, isn’t he ? ” And I 


X02 Out of Eden, 

Ji'nswered, “Not that I know of” “Oh, but he is,” said young 
Thirlwell ; “I saw him yesterday at the ‘White Hart.’ He was 
on the staircase with a young lady, in black.” Those were his very 
words, my lady, and I questioned him very closely, and I am sure 
he was speaking what he believed to be true.’ 

Appleby was unprepared for the look of intense anger which 
passed over Lady Blunt’s face as she listened to his story. 

‘ It is impossible,’ she said, putting her hand to her side with a 
quick movement, while her brow contracted with a sudden pang of 
pain. ‘ At Oniston ! ’ she gasped. ‘ The day before yesterday, did 
you say — with a young lady in black ?’ \ 

‘ Yes, my lady, the day before yesterday, with a young lady in 
black. It was that I thought your ladyship ought to know.’ And 
the old servant cast down his eyes. 

For a moment or two after this Lady Blunt did not speak. She 
sat down pale and trembling, with an acute physical pain in her 
side, and the bitterest emotion in her heart. ‘The day before 
yesterday,’ she was thinking, ‘ Florence and Bessie Chester went 
to Oniston. So this was their dressmaker ; they have been basely 
deceiving me, pretending to yield to my will, and all the while 
cariying on this wretched intrigue — and my son, too — there is no 
one — no one on earth that I can trust ! ’ 

Thus thought the desolate woman, as many of us have thought 
before. In all this teeming world not one in whom we can en- 
tirely believe ! It is a bitter reflection ; bitter to the calmest and 
most philosophical of us, and very bitter to the narrow-minded, 
originally warm-hearted Lady Blunt, who had seen one by one of 
her idols fail her, and who had yet still clung to the love of her son. 

She covered her face with her hand, and gave a sort of moan, 
wrung from her lips partly by mental, partly by bodily pain. 

‘ Excuse me, my lady,’ said Appleby, who was exceedingly sony 
to see the effect of his communication, ‘ but you see young people 
vv'ill be young people — ’ 

‘You can go now, Appleby,’ said Lady Blunt, interrupting his 
well-meant efforts at consolation, and so the butler went, and Lady 
Blunt was left alone with her own thoughts. 

Long she sat there, and her heart grew hard and bitter within 
her as she sat. If they had not deceived her — deceived her with 
such easy, smiling words, she could have forgiven them — certainly 
would have forgiven her son ; but it had been all planned. She 
knew this now, and understood why Harry had taken her cheque 
and then had gone smiling away. And Florence Chester — the 
daughter of the man for whose sake she had hidden and forgiven 
so much — she was scheming, was she, ‘ to be my lady ! and step 
into my place after I am gone,’ thought Lady Blunt, with a bitter 
smile. ‘ But she never shall ; I will never give my consent,’ she 
added, with stern resolve. 

Filled with her gloomy thoughts, she went upstairs with her slow, 
languid, heavy steps, to seek the sisters. She rapped when she 
reached the bedroom door, and a moment later Bessie put out her 
head. 


App!chys Ncivs, 1 03 

* Oh ! Lady Blunt, is that you ? ’ she said, smiling, though slightly 
embarrassed by the appearance of their hostess. 

‘ I wish to see Florence,’ answered Lady Blunt, gravely and sternly. 

‘ I am so sorry,’ half whispered Bessie, in reply, and she went 
out on the corridor and closed the door gently behind her, ‘ but 
poor Florence is asleep ; she had a dreadful headache, and I per- 
suaded her to lie down, and she has fallen asleep — and I am sure 
you would not wish to disturb her, Lady Blunt.’ 

‘ Whether she is asleep or awake I will see her,’ answered Lady 
Blunt, coldly and sharply, and without another word (Bessie made 
a vain effort to interpose) Lady Blunt pushed Bessie aside, and 
laying her hand on the door handle, she opened it and entered the 
room. 

Instead of being on the bed asleep, Florence was sitting in an 
easy-chair by the fire, her eyelids swollen with crying, and some 
sal-volatile was standing on a little table near her. 

‘ Lady Blunt ! ’ she said, rising in surprise and some anger, when 
she saw Lady Blunt enter, as she had, of course, heard the excuse 
made by Bessie. 

‘As you are not asleep,’ said Lady Blunt, bitterly and harshly, 
‘ I wish to speak to you. Shut the door, Bessie, and leave the 
room. I will have no untruthful witness present,’ she added, glanc- 
ing scornfully at Bessie, who stood behind, exceedingly ashamed 
at having been caught. 

Bessie did as she was ordered, and Lady Blunt was alone with 
Florence ; that is, the door was between Bessie and the others, for 
Bessie, indulging her natural anxiety, went no further. 

‘ So,’ began Lady Blunt, fixing her sombre, angry eyes on Flor- 
ence, ‘ you and your sister have been playing a little comedy while 
living under my roof.^’ 

‘ I do not understand you,’ said Florence, also looking at Lady 
Blunt with some defiance. 

‘ The dressmaker at Oniston was my son, it seems ! ’ continued 
Lady Blunt, with bitter scorn. ‘A truly ladylike excuse, certainly.’ 

A burning flush rushed over Florence’s pale face at these words, 
and for a moment she dropped her proud dark eyes before Lady 
Blunt’s angry ones, but only for a moment. 

‘ Yes,’ she said, looking up the next moment, with a half smile 
curling round her lips, ‘ the dressmaker was your son — that is, we 
went to Oniston to see your son and the dressmaker combined.’ 

‘ How dare you speak thus?’ cried Lady Blunt, ‘you — you who 
ought to be on your knees.’ 

‘ Why on my knees ? ’ asked Florence haughtily. 

‘ For your shameful ingratitude,’ continued Lady Blunt passion- 
ately. ‘ Do you know what you owe me ? But for my forbearance 
you and your sister would have been disgraced.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ said Florence. ‘But I warn you, Lady 
Blunt,’ she added, putting out her hand, ‘that you had best say 
nothing ; you will regret when it is too late, if you say words that 
cannot be unsaid to-night.’ 

‘ Are you mad, girl ? ’ retorted Lady Blunt. ‘ Me regret ! what 


104 Out of Eden. 

can your opinions or anger do to me ? But I will tell > this, that 
you shall regret your base deception, and that if you suppose I shall 
ever forgive you, or ever forgive my son if he marries you, you will 
indeed find yourself bitterly mistaken/ 

‘You can speak to Harry,’ said Florence, after a moment’s silence. 

‘ You know where to find him, I suppose ; but if you don’t, he is 
staying at the “White Hart,” at Oniston.’ 

''Harry .f* interrupted Lady Blunt ; ‘you are familiar, truly.’ 

‘ Well, Sir Harry, then, if that pleases you better,’ said Florence. 

‘ But please. Lady Blunt, do not let us discuss this any more to- 
night. I am tired. I have been very much upset to-day, and 
really I cannot stand another scene like this.’- 

Lady Blunt stared at Florence, absolutely speechless. She must be 
mad, she thought, this girl, to defy her thus — absolutely, totally mad. 

‘ You are insane, I think,’ she presently said, very bitterly ; ‘ but, 
as you say, there must be an end of such scenes as this, and the 
end shall come very quickly ; for you and your sister shall not sleep 
another night in my house after this, for your insolence.’ 

Florence shrugged her shoulders. 

‘ Well, we meant to go very shortly,’ she said^ ‘ but wait till you’ve 
seen Harry ; after that, I expect you won’t be quite so insulting.’ , 
And Florence turned her back on Lady Blunt, who, furious at such 
treatment, hurried from the room so quickly that she nearly fell 
over Bessie, who was kneeling listening at the door, and had not 
time to rise until Lady Blunt was upon her. 

‘ You are a pretty pair, I must say ! ’ said Lady Blunt, regarding 
the overwhelmed Bessie with withering scorn. ‘ But as you have 
been listening, I need not repeat what I have said to your sister 
within. Only, quite understand, you and she leaves this house to- 
morrow.’ 

And with these words Lady Blunt retired to her own bedroom, 
locking the door behind her, and the sisters were left together, 
Bessie almost in tears, Florence very pale, angry, and defiant. 

‘ What a dreadful thing to have happened,’ said Bessie, almost in 
a whimper. 

‘ It was sure to come, sooner or later,’ answered Florence. ‘ How 
I hate her !’ she added, stamping her little foot on the hearthrug. 

‘ I have hated myself to-day,’ she continued, gloomily, looking into 
the fire. ‘ But to triumph over Lady Blunt, to silence her insulting 
tongue, is worth all, I think, that I have gone through.’ 

‘ Of course it is,’ said Bessie. ‘ It will all come right in time. 
It’s very disagreeable just noAv though, and I think when the old 
woman fell over me it capped everything.’ And Bessie began to 
laugh. 

‘ It’s very '^eWyou laughing,’ said Florence, bitterly enough ; fou 
reap the benefit, and poor, poor Robert Fletcher and 1 are the 
victims.’ 

‘ Come, you are not so desperately in love with him as all that,’ 
said Bessie. 

‘ I’m in love with him enough to make me regret what I have 
done, at least,’ answered Florence, and then with a weary sigh she 


Appleby's News, 1 05 

sank down in her easy-chair, while Bessie proceeded to give her a 
few drops from the sal-volatile bottle, and otherwise try to raise her 
drooping spirit. 

All through the night Lady Blunt never slept. For one thing 
she was suffering from excessive palpitation of the heart, and for 
another her bitter anger and excitement against Florence and 
Bessie Chester was so great that it destroyed all idea of repose. 
That these girls should not only have deceived her, but absolutely de- 
fied and insulted her, seemed almost impossible to Lady Blunt, and 
yet, as she paced restlessly up and down her room, the unhappy 
lady knew this to be true. 

‘ All through the years I knew him,’ thought Lady Blunt think- 
ing of their father, ‘ I never heard a disrespectful word from his lips, 
and even when he forgot himself so far as to ask me to be his wife, 
he asked me on his knees ; but these girls have thrown aside all 
respect, all decency, even the respect and decency due to my age, 
if there was no difference of rank between us. But I will not 
endure it ! For John Chester’s sake I will not quite cast them off, 
laut they shall leave the house, and I will tell Harry in the morning 
if he ever speaks to them again I shall disinherit him ; he forgets, 
I think, that almost everything is in my power.’ 

In such angry and passionate reflections as these Lady Blunt 
passed the weary hours, and then early on the following morning 
she ordered her carriage to ‘ drive to Oniston.’ She told Appleby 
with gloomy eyes, and the butler felt very uneasy about the result 
of his communication, and wished he ‘ had let it alone.’ 

But it was too late ; we speak unnecessary words, and when their 
echo comes to disturb us, we naturally wish them unspoken. 
Appleby was but like the rest of us ; he had longed to tell his lady 
about Sir Harry ; longed for what reason t To add to his import- 
ance perhaps, or out of the strange love which people have to be 
'the first to tell ill news ? At all events he had wished to tell her, 
and now having told her, trembled at the consequences. 

He handed her into the carriage, and noticed with a sinking 
heart how pale and aged she looked. He felt absolutely nervous 
lest anything should happen her, and then as he entered the hall 
again he met the sisters coming down to breakfast. 

‘ My lady has gone to Oniston,’ he said, and Bessie and Florence 
looked at each other, and then after breakfast was over went up- 
stairs and quietly began packing their belongings. 

‘ We will go before she comes back,’ Florence said, and Bessie 
agreed with her, and so they began preparing to leaveWeirmere Hall. 

In the meantime Lady Blunt had arrived at the little picturesque 
country town, where she expected to find her son, and where she did 
find hipi sitting down to the most luxurious breakfast the ‘ White 
Hart ’ could supply. 

He looked up surprised when his mother entered the room. 

‘Why, old lady,’ he said, rising, ‘ whoever expected to see you ?’ 

‘ Why are you here, Harry ? ’ answered Lady Blunt ; ‘ why are 
you hiding here, and not at home ? ’ 


io6 Otit of Eden. 

‘ 1 am not hiding,’ answered the young man, casting his eyes down 
sulkily ; ‘ come, you know, this won’t do. I am too old not to be 
out of leading-strings.’ 

‘ You promised me to go away,’ said Lady Blunt ; * you promised 
to give up all idea of Florence Chester — how have you kept your 
promises, Harry .?’ 

Sir Harry laughed. 

‘ Not to the letter, you see,’ he said ; ‘ but about Flo, you told me, 
old lady, she was willing to give me up t That was all bosh — she 
wasn’t willing.’ 

‘Are you willing, Harry.?’ asked Lady Blunt, with both sorrow 
and shame in her voice. 

The young man shrugged his shoulders. 

‘ What can a fellow say,’ he said, ‘ when a pretty girl lets you see 
plain enough she wants you .? No, old lady, if you want the truth, 
I’m not willing.’ 

‘You can never marry her,’ said Lady Blunt, in trembling 
accents ; ‘ she is no fit wife for you — there is a dark stain on her 
name which nothing can wipe away ; you guessed perhaps why her 
unhappy father ended his life, but you did not know the truth.’ 

‘ Head and ears in debt, wasn’t he ?’ said Sir Harry. 

‘ In debt ! ’ repeated Lady Blunt, looking gloomily at her son. 
‘ Harry, I never meant to tell this ; but one man was forced to 
know — Robert Fletcher was forced to know, of the thousands and 
thousands — I dare not tell you how many thousands, that this un- 
happy man forged my name for. I screened him, and would screen 
his memory now, but you see why I have broken a solemn promise, 
to save you, my only son, from the degradation of such a match as 
this !’ 

Sir Harry rose from, the table, and began walking up and down 
the room, and then went to the window and looked out. 

‘ I took these girls home,’ continued Lady Blunt. ‘ I treated 
them with every kindness and consideration ; I allowed Robert 
Fletcher constantly to be with them, knowing that he cared for 
Florence, and that she had flirted with him and encouraged him as 
no decent or respectable girl would, unless she meant to be his 
wife ; and now I find all the time she was carrying on an intrigue 
with you ?’ 

‘ Come, mother, this is too bad ! ’ 

‘ It is truth, Harry. She liked Mr Fletcher, I am sure ; but be- 
cause you are the heir, you are Sir Harry — ’ 

‘ Upon my word you are very flattering !’ interrupted Sir Harry. 

‘ I do not wish to be flattering ; I wish you to know what the girl 
is for whose sake you have deceived your mother ; for whose sake 
you have been untruthful and untrue ! Hear me out, Harry, it 
came to my ears last night that you were here, and I went up and 
asked these girls, whom I have sheltered, if they knew this, and 
Florence answered me with gibes and jests ! “Ask Harry,” she 
said ; and when I left her in disgust at her insolence, what do you 
think happened ? 1 nearly fell over her sister listening at the 
door.’ 


Appleby’s Neivs, 1 07 

^ Sir Harry gave a harsh laugh at this, but there was a scowl on 
his face. 

‘And what did Flo say ? ’ he asked, after a pause. 

‘ She said that I had better ask you. She said she wanted no 
scenes, and that she was too tired and upset to have any ; she asked 
me to leave her, in fact. And when I turned indignantly away, 
after telling her that I, too, was weary of scenes, and that I would 
end them by finding another home for her sister and herself, I dis- 
covered Bessie listening.’ 

‘What have I to do Wich Bessie.?’ said Sir Harry roughly. 
‘ Bessie is nothing to me ; as for old Chester’s defalcations, why he 
was a low cad, that’s all, to cheat you when you trusted him as you 
did. But you remember I warned you, old lady — however, the 
man’s dead, and Flo cannot be blamed for her father’s misdeeds. 
It’s a confounded bore ! and perhaps if you hadn’t been quite so 
close about old Chester, things might have been ‘different ; but as 
it is — ’ And Sir Harry began to whistle. 

‘ I told you only to save you, Harry,’ answered Lady Blunt, with 
quivering lips. 

‘All right,’ said Sir Harry, with a queer, short laugh ; ‘and now 
I say, mother, Flo’s right about that at any rate. What’s the good 
of making any scenes here .? Suppose you go home now ; what’s 
the sense of having a row at a hotel, and all the fools gaping and 
listening, and telling the whole countryside this or that.? No; 
you go home now, and I’ll ride over in the afternoon and see Flo, 
and we’ll try to come to some arrangement. I sn’t this the best plan ? ’ 

‘ And you’ll give it up, Harry.?’ said Lady Blunt, in trembling 
accents. ‘ It — it has cost me much to say to you what I have said 
to-day ; do not let it be in vain.’ 

‘All right,’ again said Sir Harry; ‘but come — far best go away 
now, old lady — and I promise to ride over in the afternoon and see 
what best can be done.’ 

With these vague promises. Lady Blunt was forced to go away. 
She had a miserable drive home, and reached Weirmere Hall about 
one o’clock, and Appleby, who was anxiously watching for her, 
noticed how pale and feeble she was, and how she tottered and 
leaned heavily on his arm as he assisted her out of the carriage. 

She went into the empty dining-room, where lunch was laid, and 
on the sideboard was standing a bottle of champagne, which 
Appleby had brought up from the cellar to be ready for his lady’s 
return. 

‘ Excuse me, my lady,’ he said, ‘ but allow me to give you a glass 
of champagne ; you remember Dr Humphrey ordered it for you 
whenever you were over-fatigued.’ 

Lady Blunt only bowed her head in answer to her old servant’s 
care, and held out her shaking hand for the champagne, for she felt 
utterly wearied out and overcome. 

The wine revived her a little, and then she looked at Appleby, 
who was bustling nervously about the room, very unlike his usual 
pompous and dignified self. 

‘ Where are the Miss Chesters, Appleby .?’ she asked 


io8 Out of Eden, 

Appleby cleared his throat, and gave a nervous cough before he 
answered. 

‘ They are out, my lady,’ he said. 

‘ Out ! You had better ring the lunch-bell then, and they will 
hear it. I daresay they are only in the grounds.’ 

Again Appleby cleared his throat, and glanced somewhat 
anxiously at Lady Blunt. 

‘ My lady,’ he said, with some hesitation, ‘ I — I have a note for 
you. Miss Florence left a note — I think they proposed staying some 
little time when they went out.’ 

Appleby knew perfectly well when he said this of the locked and 
strapped trunks standing upstairs ; he knew how the sisters had 
gone out together with some light luggage and their dressing-cases, 
and how they had walked down to the point of the lake where the 
steamers touched, and he knew also of the addresses left on the 
luggage, and understood now what had happened almost as well as if 
he had read the letter he had placed in Lady Blunt’s trembling hand. 

‘ Why did you not give it to me before said Lady Blunt hastily, 
and she tore open the envelope, and having put on her glasses, read 
the letter Florence had left for her. 

‘Dear Lady Blunt’ (it began),— ‘ When you receive this, I 
suppose Harry will have told you the truth, and you will know that 
I had some right last night to call him Harry, since we have been 
married for three days. We were married by Mr Brand, at Oniston 
Church, on Tuesday morning, when Bessie and I went into Oniston ; 
and I think, therefore, under the circumstances, and after the un- 
pleasant words which were spoken between us last night, that for 
the present it is better for us to leave Weirmere. But I do not, 
however, wish to do this without writing a few lines to thank you 
for your kindness to us, and I think it will be best for us both to 
forget and forgive the past. I am ready to do this, and to remain, 
your affectionate daughter, Florence Blunt.’ 

Lady Blunt read this letter to the end : read it, and understood 
it, and then, with a low moan, she fell off her seat heavily on the 
floor. 

‘ Oh, my poor lady ! it has killed her,’ cried Appleby, lifting up 
her head. 

At this moment the sisters — Florence and Bessie — were arriving 
at the door of the ‘White Hart’ at Oniston, and were recognised 
and received with some displeasure on his brow, by a young man 
standing smoking at the doorway. 

This was Sir Harry Blunt, and when he saw Florence and Bessie 
approach, he flung away his cigar, and went forward to speak to 
them. 

‘ I say,’ were his (irst^ words, ‘ you’ve made a fine jumble of it 
between you — confound it — why couldn’t you keep in with the old 
woman?’ 


The Bride and Bridegroom* 


109 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM. 

Lady Blunt was very ill ; that strange signature — Florence Blunt 
— was her last thought as she fell forward on the floor, and the not 
over robust spark of life in her worn frame almost fluttered and 
went out. Appleby, indeed, who lifted her up in his arms, looking 
at her death-like face, cried out, ‘ It has killed her,’ and for a moment 
or two believed that the shock had been greater than she could bear. 
But presently, with a miserable moan of pain. Lady Blunt moved 
her quivering hand and laid it on her side. 

‘ It’s the old pain in her heart,’ said Jenkins, her maid, who had 
now come to her assistance. ‘ Appleby, send a groom for Dr 
Humphrey as fast as he can ride.’ 

Appleby ran out of the room to do this, but first picked up 
Florence’s letter and carried it with him as he went. He hurried 
to the stables, gave his orders, and saw the groom go, and then 
justifiable curiosity (he would have called it) induced him to open 
and read the letter that had had such a terrible effect on his un- 
happy lady. 

Its contents did not surprise Appleby so greatly as they would 
have done a few hours before. Downstairs there had been thoroughly 
discussed the strange address which had been left on the locked 
and strapped trunks in the ‘ young ladies’ room.’ Some of these 
were addressed. Miss Chester (Bessie’s), but others had another 
name — Lady Blunt ^ care of Sir Henry Blunt ^ White Hart Hotels 
Onistofi, 

Knowing what he had done before, these addresses had been 
almost conclusive evidence to Appleby that ‘ Sir Harry had been 
and made a fool of himself, and married a girl who was no more 
fit for him to marry than the broomstick ! ’ 

‘And what they see in her, the gentlemen, that sets them all 
a-running after her, I cannot see,’ continued Appleby’s disapproving 
reflections ; for being large, broad of make, and light of hair, and 
having some vague recollection of a sonsy, fair-locked Scottish 
lassie, whom he had met in the days of his youth, among the 
‘ green braes,’ he could see little or no beauty in the slim, dark- 
eyed Florence. 

‘ It’s a bad business,’ he thought, shaking his head ; ‘ bad for us 
all, M^orse for my lady — for she must blame herself— I always said 
poor Chester’s daughters had no business here.’ 

In the meanwhile, with painful deep-drawn gasps. Lady Blunt 
was reviving, and by the time Dr Humphrey arrived at the Hall, 
she was able to speak to him. 

‘ I have had one of my old attacks, doctor,’ she said, with a wan 
and wintry smile. 

‘ So I see,’ answered the doctor, very gravely, for he knew, if 
Lady Blunt did not, a day would come when one of these ‘attacks* 
would surely be fatal. 


no 


Out of Eden, 

He knew also the cause of this sudden illness. When Appleby 
opened the door for the doctor, he had whispered a confidential 
word in his ear. 

‘ My poor lady,’ he said, with a solemn shake of his head, ‘ she’s 
had an awful shock, doctor — Miss Florence has been and run away 
with Sir Henry, and that’s the truth ; and it’s nearly killed my 
lady, and no wonder,’ 

‘ Humph !’ said Dr Humphrey, and then he went into the dining- 
room, where Lady Blunt still lay, and looked with some compassion 
at the desolate woman whose heart was filled with such bitter, and 
also self-reproachful, thoughts. 

She had broken her promise to the dead — to the man whom she 
had loved better than this boy could’ ever love, she told herself, 
with quivering lips — yet to save her son from a marriage so com- 
pletely, to her proud and narrow mind, beneath his state, she had 
not spared John Chester’s memory. 

Lying helpless there, her heart went back with remorseful love 
and tenderness to the days when the handsome, cheery man rode 
each morning to her gate, and made her life seem less dull and 
weary when he came. She would have married him, but for the 
difference of social rank between them, and so she had put away 
her love and clung to her class, and now lay a lonely, broken- 
hearted woman, who knew her self-sacrifice had been in vain, and 
perhaps remembered that if she had been John Chester’s wife he 
might now have stood by her side a happy, prosperous man. 

Dr Humphrey’s entrance interrupted her miserable reflections, 
and with a gleam of the old pride in her eyes, she tried to smile, 
and made a futile effort to hide her pain. But she did not deceive 
Dr Humphrey. 

‘ Lady Blunt, you must excuse me speaking plainly,’ he said, 
presently, ‘ but it is absolutely necessary that you have no further 
agitation. I will not pretend I do not know the cause of your 
sudden illness,’ he added. ‘ I’m an old friend, you know, and I 
hear a foolish young fellow has made a foolish match ; but you 
must not worry about it any more to-day.’ 

Lady Blunt’s pallid face flushed, and then faded as he spoke. 

‘ You must have rest,’ continued Dr Humphrey ; ‘ these young 
people may propose to come here, but you cannot see them.’ 

‘ I will not see them ! ’ cried Lady Blunt, with sudden energy 
‘ I had forgotten, in the shock — the great shock, doctor — of finding 
I have been but a puppet in their hands, for this is true — a bitter 
truth ! I had forgotten that my son said he would come here 
to-day, but I will not see him, and I will not see her ! ’ 

‘ Certainly, you must not now. With your permission, I will write 
to Sir Henry, and tell him you are totally unfit for any exciting 
discussion.?’ said Dr Humphrey. 

‘ I thank you. Pray do so, doctor, and tell Henry — my son — 
that when I am better I will write and tell him my intentions. I 
will not speak more on this subject just now,’ continued Lady Blunt, 
her pale lips quivering nervously ; ‘ I cannot do so ; but will you 
write, and Appleby will take your letter at once .? ’ 


Ill 


The Bride and Bridegroom, 

‘I will do so immediately,’ answered Arthur Humphrey; and he 
went out of the room for the purpose, and impressed on Lady 
Blunt’s servants that they must not allow anyone to see their lady. 

‘ I will not answer for the consequences if she has another shock,’ 
he told both Jenkins and Appleby. ‘ If Sir Henry or his new wife 
come here, you must tell them you had positive orders not to admit 
them.’ 

The old servants looked at each other as the doctor sat down to 
write his letter. So my lady was not going to forgive • her son at 
once at any rate, they were thinking. And they were not displeased 
that it was so. They had not relished ‘ Old Chester’s daughter, 
indeed,’ being set over their heads, and resented the idea. In 
time they would become reconciled, no doubt, to the change, but 
it was a bitter pill at present, though the excitement of the marriage 
and my lady’s dangerous illness had, no doubt, a curious charm. 

Appleby felt this when he rode, an hour or two later, into Oniston, 
as the bearer of Dr Humphrey’s letter to Sir Harry. He felt im- 
portant as he drew rein at the door of the ‘ White Hart,’ and 
inquired, in a tone of dignified condescension, of the young waiter 
if Sir Henry was within. 

Sir Henry was within, and presently Appleby was ushered 
upstairs, and found himself in the presence of the bride and 
bridegroom and Bessie Chester. 

He had sent Dr Humphrey’s letter up before, and this letter now 
lay open on the table as he entered the room, but the young people 
not unnaturally wished to hear further particulars, and thus they 
had sent down for Appleby to come up to speak to them. 

Appleby bowed respectfully as he entered. 

Sir Henry might be a disobedient son, and had no doubt nearly 
killed his mother, but he was also Appleby’s future master if 
Appleby remained at the Hall ; and the last consideration was 
greater than the two first to a well-bred servant. 

‘ So the old lady’s been ill ? ’ began Sir Harry. 

Again Appleby bowed. 

‘ Yes ; my lady has had a very serious attack,’ he answered, half- 
pleased to inflict a little private punishment, though, of course, 
discreetly veiled. ‘ Dr Humphrey is very anxious about my lady,’ 
he continued ; ‘ he says the least excitement will have a fatal effect.’ 

‘What! bad as that.?’ said Sir Harry sharply, and with some 
natural feeling. ‘ When did she take ill, Appleby?’ 

‘ Immediately on her return from her drive this morning,’ replied 
Appleby, casting down his eyes. ‘ I just gave her Miss Florence’s 
letter as I was desired, and my lady read it, and then gave a cry 
and fell forward insensible on the floor.’ 

Appleby administered his punishment gravely, but with inward 
relish ; he looked up and saw the bride’s delicate face flush, and 
heard also with quiet enjoyment the bridegroom’s angry remark, — 

‘ Confound it, Florence,’ he said, ‘ I told you what a hash you had 
made of it, and now it seems you have nearly killed my mother 1 ’ 

‘She’s better now, is she not?’ asked Florence of Appleby, in a 
quick, anxious tone. 


1 12 Out of Eden. 

‘ She is conscious, my lady, now,’ said Appleby, ‘ but cannot be 
called out of danger.’ 

There was an uncomfortable pause, broken by Bessie saying, in 
a conventional tone of placid politeness, — 

‘ Well, Appleby, I hope Lady Blunt will soon be better.’ 

‘ I hope so, miss,’ replied Appleby gravely. 

‘ I’m awfully sorry,’ said Sir Harry, and he really was, for Lady 
Blunt was his mother, and the dullest and most selfish heart feels a 
faint echo to that love. ‘ Confound it ! can’t I see her, Appleby .? 
Humphrey says we have not to go near her, but upon my word, if 
she’s so ill, her son ought to see her ! I will see her — I’ll go now ? 
that’s a fact, and no one shall stop me.’ 

‘ I’m dreadfully sorry. Sir Henry — it puts me, of course, in a very 
painful position — but I have my lady’s positive orders that no one 
— these were her very words, sir — no one had to be allowed to 
enter the Hall but the doctor,’ said Appleby, casting down his eyes 
again, and moving his big feet on the carpet. ‘ It would be as 
much as my lady’s life is worth, sir, if you tried to see her just now, 
and I’m sure you’ll excuse me saying this.’ 

‘ Of course, you can’t go, Harry,’ said Florence, ‘ if Lady Blunt 
is ill. Wait a little while,’ she added, and she went up to him and 
half-whispered in his ear, ‘ Let us go to London, now ; I told you 
it would be the best plan.’ 

‘Well, you haven’t planned very well at any rate, madam !’ he 
answered, half-crossly, half-fondly, and he took hold of Florence’s 
slim white hand. 

‘ I am very sorry about your mother,’ she answered, gently. 

‘About the Misses Chester’s luggage — ’ commenced Appleby, 
after again clearing his throat. 

‘ Oh ! I say, confound it ! ’ said Sir Harry, looking round. ‘ You 
must drop that, old fellow — I daresay you know all about it — but 
all the same I may as well tell you — this is Lady Blunt now,’ and 
he laid his hand on Florence’s shoulder. 

Appleby bowed, and smiled his shrewd Scotch smile. 

‘ I heard a rumour. Sir Henry,’ he said, ‘ but of course it wasn’t 
my place to mention it, but as you’ve been pleased to tell me, sir, I 
hope you’ll excuse an old family servant wishing you and the young 
lady every happiness.’ 

‘ Thank you, Appleby,’ said Florence, in her sweet, smiling way. 

‘ You must drink our health,’ said Sir Harry ; ‘ring the bell for a 
bottle of champagne, Appleby, and — there, old fellow, drink our 
health with that.’ 

And Sir Harry flung a sovereign into Appleby’s hand, who 
smiled, and began to think as he went downstairs that after all 
there was ‘a deal of good in Sir Harry.’ 

‘ But about the luggage, Harry ? ’ said Bessie, who had no idea 
of losing her trunks. 

Sir Harry shrugged his shoulders ; he disliked Bessie, and did 
not approve of her coming to him as well as his wife. 

‘ You can see Appleby about it,’ he said, and as Bessie left the 
room for the purpose. Sir Harry put his arm through Florence’s. 


JV/iat Mary said. 1 1 3 

‘ I say, little woman,’ he said, ‘ what about that sister of youis ; 
she’s not going to stay on with us, is she ?’ 

‘ Where can she go just now, Harry ?’ said Florence. ‘ Let her 
stay with us a little while^ at any rate.’ 

‘ I don’t see the fun of it,’ began Sir Harry ; but Florence put 
her white hand across his lips. 

‘ Hush ! ’ she said ; ‘ you must not grumble, sir — poor Bessie — 
think how dull it would be for me if she were not here, when you 
are away.’ 

‘But I’m not going away,’ said Sir Harry, half-Jealously ; ‘you 
are not tired of me already, are you V 

‘ Stupid boy ! ’ answered Florence, but as she said the smiling, 
coquettish words could her young husband have read her secret 
thoughts — she was wondering how she could contrive to spend the 
weary hours she had condemned herself to live with him ! 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

WHAT MARY SAID. 

Mr Arthur Humphrey was by no means a gossip ; he disliked 
his own private affairs talked of, and he rarely, therefore, spoke of 
other people’s unless absolutely obliged to do so. But the most 
silent and reserved men and women have yet a secret interest in 
their fellow-beings, though they do not indulge themselves in 
making this public. Arthur Humphrey had therefore heard with 
interest — a painful interest — that Sir Harry Blunt had married 
Florence Chester, and that thus poor Robert Fletcher’s love dream 
was over. He regretted this both as a doctor and a friend. He 
had liked the bright girl he remembered since she was a little dark- 
eyed lovely child, and he was sorry for the fate she had chosen, 
knowing the world too well not to know that it could not be a 
happy one. 

‘ Poor little Flo,’ he thought, half sadly, half cynically, as he rode 
from Lady Blunt’s door full of his news, ‘ so the title has been too 
much for her — to be my lady she has thrown away the love of a 
true and honest man.’ 

‘Are all women like this V continued his reflections. ‘ It is only 
that this girl has had the chance ; that she is more attractive than 
most of her sisters, and thus has had the power as well as the will 
to take a step upward on the social ladder? Would Mary have 
done this ?’ 

Of course being in love with ‘Mary’ he decided she would 
not. No, Mary was above such folly, thought Dr Arthur, totally 
forgetting that for some time ‘ such folly,’ or at least something 
very like it, had influenced his own conduct. But he had got over 
this now ; he intended to ask Mary to be his wife as soon as he 
could find a suitable opportunity. Riding along the quiet country 
roads on his patient Jenny, he was picturing to himself bis home 

H 


1 14 Out of Eden, 

as it was to be, and the beautiful woman who was to ‘watch his 
coming.’ He was a sober, thoughtful man, past his youth, and yet 
he had settled it all in his own mind, and planned where his mother 
and Aunt Anne were to live, without having obtained the consent of 
the future wife to the bargain ! 

‘ She is a good girl,’ he thought, and so rode on satisfied that he 
had chosen well, if poor Robert Fletcher had chosen badly. He 
was going to see Robert Fletcher now, and he was full of the news 
he had for Mary. 

‘ I have something to say to you,’ he half whispered to her when 
he entered Robert’s sick-room, and found his patient asleep, and 
with a slightly troubled air Mary followed him down into the little 
parlour. 

‘ I have a piece of news for you,’ he said, when they got there ; 
I’m afraid not over good news.’ 

‘ Not about Robert .?’ asked Mary, with quick alarm. 

‘Not about Robert personally, but I fear it may affect him — 
Florence Chester is married.’ 

To his astonishment Mary showed no surprise. 

‘To Sir Harry Blunt,’ she said, quietly, looking at him; ‘yes, I 
knew.’ 

‘ You knew ! ’ 

‘ Yes ; Florence told me last night when she brought the roses ; 
it is very shameful.’ 

‘She told you ?’ repeated Dr Arthur, genuinely surprised. 

‘Yes,’ said Mary, and she turned away her head and went to 
the window. She was grateful ; she was thankful ; Robert had 
decidedly improved during the clay, and the doctor had told her he 
hoped and believed the crisis was past, and that now Robert would 
want nursing more than doctoring ; but still the thought of Robert’s 
coming disappointment was very bitter to bear. 

‘ I suppose she refused him ? ’ said Dr Arthur presently. 

‘I suppose so,’ replied Mary, turning round, ‘but she did not 
say so. I did what you would call a very foolish thing,’ she con- 
tinued, ‘ but I was half mad with grief, and I thought if he had some 
little thing she had worn — I knew he loved her so’ (and Mary blushed) 
— ‘that he would be happier, and so I wrote, and Florence came — ’ 
but here Mary paused, apparently much embarrassed. 

‘And she brought him the roses ?’ said Arthur Humphrey, with a 
little laugh. ‘ Pleasant for .Sir Harry !’ 

‘She does not love Sir Harry,’ said Mary indignantly ; ‘ she is a 
bad, unworthy girl. If— if Robert had been Sir Harry she would 
have married him.’ 

‘ Precisely,’ answered Arthur Humphrey. 

‘She seemed to care for Robert — absolutely — to care for him,* 
continued Mary, yet more indignantly, while her complexion flushed. 
‘ She said many fine things ; I need not repeat them, but the fact 
remains the same.’ 

‘ She is Lady Blunt,’ said Dr Humphrey. ‘ I beg her ladyship’s 
pardon, but I fear she has been a foolish girl. I am afraid she must 
like Robert too well ; it was a plucky thing you know, after all, to 


W/iat Mary said, 1 1 5 

come here— in a case of typhoid fever — to bring roses to console 
her lover ! ’ And again Arthur Humphrey laughed. 

* I see nothing to laugh at ! ’ said Mary angrily. ‘ I think it was 
wicked.’ 

‘ Wicked if you like, but it showed the girl’s heart was touched ; 
that, in fact, she had a heart.’ 

* A bad heart, then ! False to her husband. False to Robert.’ 

‘ You are a severe judge, Mary,’ said Arthur Humphrey, with a 
smile. ‘ I think I know one woman, however, who would not be 
false,’ he added, crossing the room and taking Mary’s hand, ‘ who 
would be false neither to lover nor husband — eh, Mary ? 

‘ I — I — really don’t know,’ said Mary coldly, disengaging her hand. 

‘ Why do you take away your hand t Do you guess what I mean ? 
I think you would be true, and I want you to be this to me, Mary.’ 

‘You should not say such things,’ she answered, after a moment’s 
silence. 

‘ But why not 

‘ Because you do not mean them — because I hate to listen to 
them,’ replied Mary, without raising her eyes to Dr Arthur’s face. 

‘ But I do mean them,’ he answered, with some warmth. ‘ I mean 
every word I say. I believe you are true, and good, and honest — 
as true as gold.’ 

‘You allow me some good qualities, then .?’ said Mary scofhngly. 

‘ Mary — ’ began Arthur Humphrey, with gravity and solemnity 
suitable for the occasion, for he was just going to propose to her. 

‘ Here is Mr Thirlwell,’ said Mary, for at this moment Mr Thirl- 
well, fresh coloured and comely, was seen advancing up the little 
garden in front of the cottage, and Mary opened the parlour door 
and went out to receive him, leaving the doctor inside to indulge 
in some strong mental wishes regarding his assistant’s final des- 
tination. 

‘ How is brother.^’ said Mr Thirlwell, in the usual lightsome way 
that Mrs Draper admired ; for though his head was splitting with 
that last glass that sister Anne had given him to soothe his per- 
turbed spirit, and though his heart was heavy with jealousy and 
love, he still preserved his outward liveliness. 

‘ My brother, I hope, is better,’ answered Mary, and she smiled 
as the young doctor had not seen her smile since the commence- 
ment of Robert’s illness. 

‘ And you look your charming self again,’ said Mr Thirlwell, 
gazing admiringly at Mary’s face, and little guessing that his 
superior was within earshot. ‘Ah, Miss Mary — ’ and he sighed 
and looked round the garden dashed with wind and rain, ‘ would 
you give a fellow a button-hole now— just a faded chrysanthemum, 
for I see yours are faded, to wear over his — ’ 

He never told Mary where he intended to wear her expected 
flower. Looking up he saw Dr Humphrey standing in the door- 
way of the parlour, grim and satirical, and the tender words he 
meant to utter died unspoken on poor Thirlwell’s lips. 

‘Giving a lecture on botany to Miss Fletcher, eh, Thirlwell? 
said the doctor disagreeably, and Mr Thirlwell smiled feebly in 


Ii6 Out of Eden, 

reply, and muttered something about admiring Miss Fletcher’s 
flowers, and then ran upstairs on some pretence about the medi- 
cine bottles, while, in anything but an agreeable frame of mind, 
Dr Humphrey went sulkily away. 

He had sat up all the night before with Robert Fletcher, he was 
jaded and anxious about his patient, and now, to add to it all, he 
was in a rage with Mary. 

Mf I thought,’ he said to himself as he returned along the same 
road down which he had ridden so complacently not half-an-hour 
ago — ‘if I thought she was one of those foolish, flirting girls who 
hav^e a jest and a smile for every man they see, I would be done 
with her ! ’ 

He almost shouted the last words in his wrath, and then the 
next minute grimly reflected that Mary seemed very much inclined 
not to have anything to do with him, instead of waiting until he 
condescended to throw the handkerchief to her. 

‘ But she can’t think of that fool, surely ; not of that rosy, self- 
satisfied fool !’ proceeded his cogitations. ‘ I am not vain, and am 
not very young, I suppose, but still — ’ 

He was a clever man this ; not vain, nor very young, as he him- 
self decided, but he was as foolish under the influence of that 
strange, absorbing passion of love as the merest boy. True, Mary 
was his first love, that is, the first woman he had loved, for he had 
wooed even a coyer mistress than this beautiful Mary, and had 
gone down on his knees to science, striving to wrest some of the 
wonderful secrets of her teeming breast. He had spent his youth 
in this pursuit, loving knowledge and the causes and effects of 
unseen laws, and abstract theories. He meant to have been a 
bachelor all his days, and to live for wisdom ; and behold, a 
country girl’s fair face had blown all his aspirations to the winds. 

And now riding home he felt very dubious whether his country 
maiden would accept the sacrifice he had so slowly decided to 
make for her sweet sake. 

‘ I have been a fool,’ he thought, ‘ as great an ass as Thirlwell,’ 
and this was saying a great deal, in Dr Arthur’s estimation, as he 
regarded Thirlwell with peculiar and, at this moment, most bitter 
contempt. 

Tired and angry, he reached home, and tired and angry spent 
the rest of the day. Then towards night he felt that his duty called 
him again to go down to the cottage to see after Robert Fletcher. 

‘Going out again, Arthur.?’ said Aunt Anne, coming tripping 
down the staircase, when she heard him putting on his overcoat 
in the hall. 

‘Yes, I am going down to see after Fletcher,’ he answered. 

Aunt Anne cleared her throat nervously. 

‘ You won’t stay all night again .?’ she asked. 

‘ No ; I hope there will be no need for that, to-night ; but, all the 
same, don’t you and mother sit up for me, Aunt Anne.’ And he 
nodded and went out. 

He knew very well of the anxious fears that followed him, and 
how the two feeble old ladies at home literally trembled at the idea 


W/iaf Mary said. 1 1 7 

he would be foolish enough to * entangle’ himself (they never men- 
tioned marriage, and would have shuddered at the very word) with 
a girl in the unhappy position of Mary Fletcher. Yes, he knew 
quite well — and he knew also he had been foolish and jealous in 
the morning, and that he had half proposed to Mary, and that 
instead of her receiving that half-proposal with the alacrity and 
delight which the two silly old ladies at home doubtless believed 
she would (and, perhaps, which Dr Arthur himself also had be- 
lieved she would), that she had snubbed him, and would not listen 
to him, and had walked out of the room'to receive ‘that fool Thirl- 
well,’ clearly for the purpose of letting him see that she was in no 
hurry at least to accept the honour of his hand. 

He was clever enough to see his folly, and yet, after the manner 
of clever people, he was foolish still. He felt his heart beating fast 
as he approached Robert Fletcher’s cottage, but mentally cried out 
what an ass he was to feel so uncomfortably disturbed. And when 
he entered the house, and walked up the staircase unannounced, 
as was his wont since Robert’s illness, and perceived, the rusty, 
melancholic form of Mrs Draper standing at Robert's bedroom 
door, making sad and solemn sighs to him, his heart seemed abso- 
lutely to stop with terror lest anything had happened. 

‘What is it .?’ he asked, quite pale ; and he who had seen death 
and sickness for years now unmoved, actually trembled as he 
asked the question. 

’ ‘ Only dear miss gone off into a sound sleep like an infant child’s, 
except they’re mostly troubled with hiccup, and other woes,’ an- 
swered Mrs Draper, ‘ and hearing the creak of your boots on the 
staircase, sir — for you have a heavy foot, doctor — I took upon my- 
self to be as bold as to come out to tell you Miss Mary was asleep.’ 

Dr Arthur gave a kind of gasp, and felt very much inclined to 
throw Mrs Draper (old black gown and all) over the banister. He 
restrained himself, however, and with his boots creaking (to his in- 
jured ears) louder than ever, though he tried to walk lightly, he 
walked into the sick-room. 

A pretty picture lay before him as he entered — Mary fast asleep 
on the couch at the foot of Robert’s bed, her pale gold hair unbound 
and falling over the cushions, her beautiful features perfect in their 
sculpture-like repose. 

‘ She’s lain like that an hour and more,’ said Mrs Draper, look- 
ing at Mary contemplatively ; and half whispering in Dr Arthur’s 
ear ; ‘ I’m sure she might be dead, poor thing, she looks so pleasant.’ 

‘ Folly ! ’ burst from Dr Arthur’s lips, but still he quickly laid his 
hands on one of the blue-veined wrists, and at his touch Mary 
started up. 

‘Ay, I thought the boots would do it,’ said Mrs Draper, shaking 
her head. 

‘ You ! ’ said Mary, rubbing her eyes. ‘ I did not hear you come.’ 

* I am afraid I have roused you out of a pleasant sleep,’ said Dr 
Arthur, smiling. 

‘ It is no matter,’ she answered ; and then she blushed, for she 
remembered at that moment what he had said to her in the morning. 


Ii8 Out of Eden, 

She gave him no chance, however, of renewing such a conversation. 
She talked to him in her ordinary way ; but she bade him good-night 
at the bedroom door, and though he lingered unnecessarily in the 
passage, she did not go downstairs to ask if he had anything to say. 

And days passed away — a week passed away — and still Dr 
Arthur’s proposal remained unspoken. He saw Mary constantly, 
but somehow never alone, or if alone she suddenly became so cold 
and silent that it seemed impossible to Dr Arthur to utter the 
important words. 

He grew angry and impatient at the delay ; so impatient that he 
unwisely forced on an explanation, which had been better left to 
happy chance. Robert was now so far on the road to recovery, 
that, humanly speaking, any danger of his life seemed past. True, 
there were days of overwhelming weakness, when nature once more 
seemed to fluctuate between life and death. But, in spite of this, 
his condition gradually, though slowly, improved. And now the 
hours of miserable anxiety and watching began to tell on Mary’s 
vigorous constitution. She grew pale, with violet-rimmed eyes, and 
Dr Humphrey, taking advantage of the undoubted change in her ap- 
pearance, insisted on her going for a walk occasionally, and induced 
the weak-voiced, altered Robert to add his entreaties to his own. 

Mary had resisted the doctor’s orders, bnt could not resist the 
beloved brother who asked her in his faint voice to go out for his 
sake. 

At length she went, and it seemed to her so long ago, so far 
away somehow, since she had been out before. She remembered 
the last time but too well, when, panting, sick with fear and dread, 
she had run home from Mrs Moony’s cottage after Arthur Humphrey 
had told her of Robert’s serious illness. She had not forgotten poor 
Mrs Moony and her helpless babes all this time, though she had 
never seen her. It was Mrs Draper’s melancholy visage that had 
first recalled the poor over-burdened widow to Mary’s mind. On 
the day when all hope seemed over for Robert, when Dr Paget, the 
London physician, and Dr Humphrey’s own mind had alike almost 
given him up. Dr Humphrey had requested Mrs Draper to go to 
the cottage, as he felt that Mary would absolutely require womanly 
assistance in the case of Robert’s death. 

When the wavering balance had turned, and hope came back. 
Dr Arthur adroitly accounted for Mrs Draper’s appearance by tell- 
ing Mary he had sent her for some luxuries for poor Mrs Moony. 
Thus Mrs Moony’s existence was recalled to Mary’s almost 
stunned mind. And Mrs Draper became useful to Mary, and io 
stayed on by Dr Humphrey’s advice. But Mary sent her down 
almost daily with necessary comforts for the widow and her little 
children, and making things for these children, too, had helped to 
divert Mary many an hour as she sat watching Robert asleep. 
And now, as they had sent her out for a walk, she not unnaturally 
thought she would like to see how the poor woman was getting on 
whom she had helped in her bitterest need, with nearly such disas- 
trous consequences to herself. 

But Mary was never fated to reach Mrs Moony’s dilapidated 


W/iat Mary said, 1 19 

cottage by the lake on this occasion. Dr Humphrey heard she had 
gone out from Robert, and hearing also that she had carried a 
bottle of port wine with her, at once guessed where she had gone, 
or intended going, and making an excuse to Robert for his hurried 
visit. Dr Arthur started off with the intention of overtaking Mary, 
or at least meeting her on her return. 

In the meanwhile Mary had been surprised at her own weakness 
when she first went into the open air. It was a chill, cold day, 
the waters of the lake dark and white flecked, yet, overcome with 
weariness, Mary sat down on a log of wood she saw lying near the 
footway, and never heard the footsteps following her own along the 
moist, rain-soaked ground, until Dr Arthur was so near that his 
sudden appearance brought a warm flood of colour to her now 
usually pale cheeks. 

Dr Arthur saw the deep blush, and, manlike, was ready to flatter 
himself as to its cause. It nerved him to say what he had intended 
to say so long ; it made him feel as if he were master of the situa- 
tion again, and he did not hesitate to take advantage of such a sign 
of weakness. Yet he began by pretending to scold her. 

‘ A nice day, and a nice place you have chosen, I must say, for 
your first walk,’ he said, smiling. ‘ Robert told me you had gone 
out, and that you had carried away a bottle of his best port. So 
I guessed, you see, where to find you.’ And again Dr Arthur 
smiled. 

‘ I was going to Mrs Moony’s,’ said Mary, not without nervousness. 

‘Yes, I knew,’ said Arthur Humphrey ; ‘and — suppose we walk 
on a little bit’ — (Mary rose) — ‘I’ve got something to say to you, 
Mary— in fact, to finish a question I began about a fortnight ago.’ 

‘ Please don’t finish, then,’ said Mary. ‘ Look at that bird, see 
there, among the reeds — ’ 

‘ We will leave the bird among the reeds for the present. I am 
quite aware you have purposely avoided answering my question, 
but I do not care to be left in an uncertainty, and I do not think 
it is good for either you or me to be so.’ 

‘ I — I — do not think we need discuss any question — we are very 
good friends. I am very much obliged to you for your great 
kindness to Robert — ’ 

‘ Exactly,’ said Arthur Humphrey, as Mary made an embarrassed 
pause ; ‘ but I did not come here to talk over your supposed obliga- 
tions to me. I came to ask you a simple question — Mary, will 
you be my wife ? ’ 

Mary’s head sank low as she heard these words, and there was 
a painful ring in her voice as she gave her answer. 

‘ I — I am very sorry you have said this,’ she began. 

‘But why.?’ asked Dr Humphrey sharply. 

‘ Because,’ continued Mary, ‘ I— I am deeply grateful for your 
kindness to Robert ; nay, do hear me, but for you I am. sure that 
I might have felt myself no better than a murderess— the murder- 
ess ’ (here her voice faltered and broke) ‘ of my dearest— the dearest 
I have on earth, and— and 1 am grateful— but anything else it 
cannot be.’ 


120 Out of Eden. 

‘ You do not care for me?’ said Arthur Humphrey, in deep and 
bitter disappointment. 

‘ I will never marry,’ answered Mary, turning her head quite 
away from him. ‘ I have made up my mind. Please let us be 
friends — more we cannot be — but let us remain friends.’ 

‘ And I say that cannot be,’ said Arthur Humphrey. ‘ Mary,’ he 
continued, ‘ I am not a man to go on having a sentimental friend- 
ship for a woman. I could not do it ! I will keep out of your way 
if you like ; out of your sight ; but see you ? No ! ’ 

Mary was silent. 

‘ Will you tell me,’ went on Dr Arthur, ‘ tell me at least one 
thing, do you care for anyone else ? ’ 

‘ No ; indeed I do not,’ said Mary, and she half smiled. 

‘ Then, my dear child, my dear girl, what folly all this is ! 
Women are far better married. It is absurd. Come, Mary, you 
must marry me after all ! ’ And he tried to take her hand, but 
Mary drew it away. 

‘Dr Humphrey,’ she said, ‘don’t mistake me. I mean what I 
have said ; other women may be better married, but — ’ 

‘ Why are you different from other women, then ?’ 

Mary’s face turned crimson. 

‘ There are considerations,’ she said, ‘ painful considerations — ' 

‘ You mean — forgive me mentioning it — the misfortune of your 
birth ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ and Mary drew herself up to her full height, ‘ I thank you 
for mentioning it ; it makes it easier for me — yes, the misfortune 
of my birth makes the idea of my marriage impossible.’ 

‘ This is absolute folly, Mary. I will not deny the misfortune — ’ 

‘No,’ said Mary sharply, ‘the misfortune that has made you 
hesitate ; the misfortune that I once overheard you say would pre- 
vent anyone thinking of marrying me ! ’ 

‘You overheard me say this?’ 

‘Yes,’ answered Mary, with sudden excitement and passion. 
‘You do not, I dare say, remember the school feast at the rectory, 
now nearly six years ago, just after Robert brought me from school 
here. I was there ; Robert wished me to go, and I happened to be 
standing behind you during the evening, and you were talking to 
Mr Marchmont, the curate. He said something about me, that I 
was a pretty girl, and you answered, “Yes, but it’s almost a pity, 
as, poor girl, in her position, no man would care to marry her.” I 
heard this — I went home with Robert, I forced him that night to 
tell me the truth. I had not known before, and I will never forget 
it.’ And Mary’s voice was choked with tears. 

‘ I — I — am deeply sorry, more sorry than I can tell you, Mary,* 
said Arthur Humphrey, also much moved ; ‘ and — and so it was I 
who blighted your young life ? ’ And he turned round and looked 
at the agitated girl by his side. 

‘ I never forgot it,’ said Mary, in a broken voice ; ‘ I never went 
out any more after that — but — why speak of it ? it — it is past ; 
only understand I could give but one answer after this to what you 
said just now,’ 


I2I 


The Letters of the Dead. 

‘And is this quite final?’ And again Arthur Humphrey looked 
earnestly at Mary. ‘ Remember, I did not know you then ; I have 
learnt to know you and care for you very dearly, Mary.’ 

‘ I can say nothing else : I am grateful to you — ’ 

A country boy came whistling down the path at this moment, 
and met Mary and Dr Arthur, staring at them as he passed with his 
half-vacant eyes, and Mary took advantage of this break. 

‘ I will go home now, I think,’ she said, turning. ‘ I would rather 
go home — I am tired. And she held out her hand, which Dr 
Arthur took. 

‘ Will you not walk a little further ? ’ he said. 

‘No; I would rather not — I would rather go;’ and the next 
moment Mary was gone. 

And never had Dr Arthur felt so downcast and weary of life as 
he did after she left him. He walked home, cursing the idle words 
he had spoken, and more in love than ever with the beautiful girl 
who had just told him her answer was final. He found his mother 
looking out anxiously for him, as an express messenger had arrived 
shortly after he went out from Weirmere Hall, and the servant was 
waiting for an answer to a note which Lady Blunt had sent down. 

Dr Arthur took this note in silence, and went into his surgery to 
read it, opening it with a sort of impatient groan. 

In her stiff, old-fashioned handwriting Lady Blunt had written 
these words, — 

‘ Dear Dr Humphrey, — Will you come up at once when you 
receive this, as it is absolutely necessary^ from certain facts that 
have strangely come to my knowledge, that I should go up to town 
without delay, and I want you to prop me up for the journey ? — 
Yours sincerely, Dorothy Blunt.’ 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE LETTERS OF THE DEAD. 

Half-an-hour later, when Dr Arthur arrived at Weirmere Hall, 
he found Lady Blunt walking up and down the drawing-room in a 
state of restless impatience. 

‘ I thought you were never coming, doctor,’ she said, giving him 
her thin, twitching hand. 

‘ I came as soon as I received your note,’ he answered. 

‘ I told you what I wanted,’ continued Lady Blunt, in her nervous, 
sharp way ; ‘ I want you to prop me up for a journey. I am going 
to town to-day.’ 

‘ It is impossible. Lady Blunt ; you cannot go— you are not fit to 
go,’ replied the doctor, with great gravity. 

‘ I may not be fit to go,’ said Lady Blunt gloomily, ‘ I know very 
well I am not fit to go for that matter ; but I must go. I have 
come upon certain letters, doctor, letters so important that I must 


122 


Out of Eden, 

learn by personal inspection whether the strange news in them be 
true. If it be true — ’ And Lady Blunt made a sudden pause. 

Dr Arthur was silent for a minute, then he said, — 

‘From what you say, I conclude there is a certain amount of 
anxiety and excitement connected with these letters. Lady Blunt 

‘ The greatest anxiety and excitement,’ she answered, quickly. 

* Don’t say what you are going to say, doctor,’ she added, raising 
her hand emphatically. ‘ I know very well the danger of sudden 
excitement to me. This journey, and the knowledge this journey 
may bring me, will perhaps be my death, but if it were twenty times 
my death I must go through it ! I must know the truth — these 
letters — the letters of the dead, have told me a strange tale, and an 
imperative duty, a duty alike to the living and the dead, commands 
me to learn the truth.’ 

‘ Well,’ said Dr Arthur musingly, ‘you must take care.’ 

‘ I wish to do that. I will not excite myself if I can help it, and 
I want you to give me something to strengthen me, to keep me up, 
in fact, and nerve me to do what is plainly right. And now tell me, 
how is Mr Fletcher.?’ 

‘ He is going on fairly well ; if all goes right there is no fear of 
him now.’ 

‘He is a good’ man, I think?’ said Lady Blunt, looking at Dr 
Humphrey inquiringly. 

‘ He is a good man, I am sure,’ answered Dr Arthur ; ‘ straight 
and true. I don’t say he hasn’t faults, but Robert Fletcher’s faults 
are not those that raise contempt.’ 

‘ And his sister?’ asked Lady Blunt, still looking at Dr Arthur, 
whose dark, penetrating eyes now fell before hers. 

‘ She is a handsome young woman,’ he said, briefly, and with a 
certain reserve in his tone that Lady Blunt noted. 

‘ Yes ; and I believe good,’ said Lady Blunt. 

‘ Most certainly good,’ answered the doctor, rising and approach- 
ing Lady Blunt. ‘ But now. Lady Blunt, let me feel your pulse ?’ 

After this their conversation naturally turned on Lady Blunt’s 
health. She was in no condition to undertake this sudden journey 
the doctor told her, and Lady Blunt’s own sense told her the same ; 
but for all that she must go. She repeated this to Dr Arthur, and 
he smiled and shrugged his shoulders, and said he would do his best 
for her ; wondering all the while what made her so determined to do 
what she knew to be so unwise, but concluding, not unnaturally, that 
it was somehow connected with the unwelcome marriage of her son 

‘ You will take Appleby with you ?’ he said, presently. 

‘ I have thought of it, but I have not decided,’ answered Lady 
Blunt. ‘Jenkins, of course, I will take.’ 

‘ I advise you to take Appleby,’ said Dr Arthur ; and then after 
some further conversation he took his leave, but not before he had 
a warning word to whisper in the butler’s ear. 

‘ Lady Blunt insists upon going to town to-day,’ he said, as 
Appleby was helping him on with his overcoat. ‘ She’s not fit to 
go : you must do your best not to allow her to excite herself,’ 

Appleby bowed, but looked and felt anxious. 


The Letters of the Dead, 123 

‘Her ladyship seems determined to go, sir, he said, and Dr 
Arthur nodded and then went away, and active preparations were 
at once commenced for Lady Blunt’s journey after he was gone. 

Lady Blunt herself made some silent private preparations of 
which her servants did not know. She unlocked and took from her 
despatch-box a packet of letters, which she had but placed there 
the night before. This packet of letters, or rather two packets of 
letters, which she had tied together, were all addressed to her late 
husband, Sir Henry Blunt, to his club in London generally, the 
addresses faded, the ink grown pale with time. 

They were all in one handwriting— a delicate feminine hand — 
and they all had one signature, a signature which made Lady Blunt 
start and grow pale when she had first read it, and then smile 
disdainfully ; yet for reason of this signature she had read through 
these letters of the dead, and for reason of this signature also she 
had decided on the sudden journey to town. 

She had found these letters by a mere accident. When her hus- 
band died, John Chester had gone up to London, and had brought 
down Sir Henry’s body to be laid in the family vault at Weirmere, 
and he had also brought down Sir Henry’s letters and effects. 

As was but natural, the widow, who had long ceased to love her 
husband, did not care to go over his letters. They were put into a 
great trunk and locked away, Lady Blunt retaining in her possession 
the unused key. And thus they had lain undisturbed year after 
year, and probably would have lain so still but for Mr Chester’s death. 

But during the transfer of the management of the estates to 
Robert Fletcher, a certain lease of an extensive farm was not to be 
found, and Lady Blunt and Robert Fletcher searched for it in vain. 
At last it suddenly struck Lady Blunt, on the very evening before 
we find her preparing for her hasty journey, that this lease might 
somehow have got into the trunk which she knew contained her 
late husband’s letters and private papers. She was anxious to find 
this lease, as it was nearly run out, and the tenant had, through 
Robert Fletcher, applied for a renewal, but at a reduced rental, and 
under certain circumstances Robert Fletcher had, before his ill- 
ness, advised Lady Blunt to renew. 

Sitting in her solitary state the night before, Lady Blunt had 
suddenly thought of the long unopened trunks which stood in a 
room now seldom used at the Hall, but which had formerly been 
Sir Henry’s smoking-room. 

Lighting a small lamp she now went to this room alone. No 
grief stirred in her chilled heart as she looked around and re- 
cognised many little articles which had once belonged to her dead 
husband. No, her love was dead also ; had died a long lingering 
death, caused by the man’s own careless, faithless life. But though 
she was done with all regret for him, there is a certain awe always 
creeps over us when we touch the belongings of those who have 
lifted the veil of death, and who know so much that we still cannot 
understand. 

This awe was on Lady Blunt as she turned the key of the trunk, 
which contained her dead husband’s letters. It was on her as she 


1 24 Out of Eden. 

lifted out packet after packet, time-stained and faded, and as her 
eyes fell on two words written in her late husband’s handwriting 
across the uppermost letter of two distinct packets of letters, all 
in one soft, feminine hand. The two words written by Sir Henry 
were ‘ Marfs letters^ 

The wife stood with these letters in her hand, knowing well, after 
she had read Sir Henry’s simple inscription, who had written them, 
and that these letters were from the fair Mary Fletcher, the mother 
of Sir Henry’s children. She stood there. Lady Blunt, and looked 
at them ; the bitter days, perhaps, recurring to her when she had 
first heard this woman’s hated name. She stood there — half curious. 
She knew her husband had loved Mary Fletcher, and never loved 
her ; Sir Henry with brutal openness had as good as told her this 
many a time. But she felt curious to know how much this woman 
had loved him. Yes, she would read one of her letters. It could 
do no harm now, both were dead, and her love (the wife’s) dead 
also. It was but curiosity, and so Lady Blunt opened one of 
Mary’s letters, and read the words traced in the faded ink. 

What were those words ? Tender, affectionate words enough 
about ‘ our darling’s ’ school bill ; about the rent of a house ; regrets 
for his money troubles ; yes, a kind, tender letter enough, but it 
was the signature that made Lady Blunt start and grow pale. She 
dropped the letter she had read, she took up another of the same 
packet — the same signature to each — ‘ Your affectionate wife., Mary 
Blunt/' 

‘ She must have been mad, or a fool ! ’ cried Lady Blunt, half 
aloud ; yet she deliberately now sat down to read the dead woman’s 
letters through, and as she read on she grew paler and trembled. 

There were many like the first she had opened, ordinary letters 
from a wife to an absent husband, letters about money, about ser- 
vants, about the hundred trifles of which our daily life is composed, 
but there were other than these. There were letters full of 
passionate reproach. ‘You will not surely wrong our boy.?’ said 
one of these last ; ‘ you will acknowledge us before he is old enough 
to understand the shame which is slowly destroying his mother’s 
life ? Harry,’ continued this letter, ‘ when you and I stood yon 
morning before God’s altar, if I could have believed you would 
have acted as you have done, I would have rather died before I 
left my father’s roof. I loved you dearly then, I love you dearly 
now, and yet my life has been one long suffering. You promised 
faithfully to acknowledge our marriage ; promised to acknowledge 
it to my dear father, and now he has gone to his grave believing 
his daughter to be no better than a castaway ! I had a letter from 
his lawyer this morning — Harry, what do you think ? He, the dear 
old man, has left our boy the dear old home at Weirmere. He has 
left it to “ his daughter’s son.” Oh ! my dear, my love, give the 
boy his rightful name ; give it to him before I die.’ 

There were several letters in this strain, and as Lady Blunt held 
them in her trembling hands she noticed that these passionate en- 
treating words were dated but a few months prior to her own 


W/iat the Lawyer knew, 125 

marriage. The last letter she read contained but some brief, 
feebly-traced lines. In this Mary thanked him for promising one 
day to acknowledge their son, ‘ though it may be after I am dead,’ 
the poor woman had written. Then apparently the poor woman 
had died. There were no letters dated after this ; none after two 
months before Dorothy Sykes had married Sir Henry Blunt, and 
brought her great fortune in her loving hands to relieve him from 
his embarrassments and his cares. 

And now Dorothy Skyes — Dorothy Lady Blunt — sat still and 
read her dead rival’s letters. She read them with alarm and fear. 
Good God ! what a story was this ! Perhaps, and Lady Blunt’s 
lips grew white and trembled, perhaps she had never been his wife ; 
she might still be Dorothy Skyes, and her boy a boy of shame, as 
she believed Robert Fletcher to have been ! 

‘ But oh ! no, he deceived this poor wretch ; he never married 
her!’ cried Lady Blunt, with her whitening lips. ‘He was too 
selfish, too poor 1 Oh ! no, he never married her, and yet how 
cruel, how cruel ! He deceived her, and when he told her the truth 
it killed her. Yes, this was it ; my boy is all right, but still I will 
see Mr Howard. I will make stcrej it is better to be sure! 

And so she decided to go to London. She would make sure. 
She told herself that Sir Harry had but deceived Mary Fletcher ; 
he was a bad man, and capable of any deceit, and he had deceived 
this poor woman and pretended he had married her. In one of 
Mary’s letters she named the city church where they had been 
married. Oh I this was easily found out at any rate. Poor woman, 
to be so cruelly deceived I Lady Blunt felt sorry for her dead 
rival, yet strangely nervous about her claims. Poor Mary, at least, 
had believed she was a wife — yes, this was quite plain — so Lady 
Blunt thought and said as she sat there shaking and trembling ; 
thinking of her own Harry, her own boy, with a new fear and a 
new protecting love. 


CHAPTER XX. 

WHAT THE LAWYER KNEW. 

/ 

Lady Blunt went up to London the same day she saw Dr Hum- 
phrey, accompanied by her butler and her maid. She went to a 
quiet West-end hotel looking on Piccadilly, and spent the first 
night there in restless anxiety. She had written a note to her late 
husband’s lawyer, Mr Howard, the senior partner of a well-known 
firm — an old man now, but stout, fresh, and handsome still. 

This gentleman was therefore prepared to receive the widowed 
Lady Blunt, when on the following morning she drove down to his 
offices, accompanied by Appleby, whom, of course, she left outside. 

She had never seen Mr Howard before. After her husband’s 
death John Chester had always transacted all business for her, and 
any document requiring her signature had been brought down to 


126 


Out of Eden, 

Weirmere by a clerk from the lawyer’s office, and she was thus a 
stranger to the portly, good-natured-looking man, who rose with a 
smile as she was announced, and held out a handsome white hand. 

‘ Lady Blunt ? ’ he said, ‘ I am glad to become personally ac- 
quainted with you.’ 

Lady Blunt only bowed ; she sat down on the chair the lawyer 
offered to her, and then looked somewhat nervously round. 

‘ You wished to see me,’ continued Mr Howard, now glancing at 
Lady Blunt’s own note lying open on the table before him, ‘on, I 
think you mention, some particular business ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Lady Blunt, still nervously. ‘ I — I — came on some 
letters lately, Mr Howard — letters that have disturbed me.’ 

There flitted over the lawyer’s face, as Lady Blunt said this, a 
new expression ; but only for one moment. The next he asked, 
with his old pleasant, unconscious smile, — 

‘ And these letters : I may ask the name of the writer, I conclude ? ’ 

Lady Blunt’s neutral tints and faded skin now flushed with a 
quick and sudden blush. 

‘ The writer,’ she repeated, as if forcing herself to some unpleas- 
ant task, ‘ is — is that unfortunate person — the mother of Sir 
Henry’s illegitimate children.’ 

‘ But this lady has been dead many years ; died before your own 
marriage. Lady Blunt,’ said Mr Howard, and he cast down his 
eyes. 

‘ So I conclude ; so, at least, I was told,’ said Lady Blunt bitterly. 
‘ I married Sir Henry in ignorance of this connection ; but I heard 
of it before long. It — it embittered my life.’ 

Mr Howard was silent ; he took up a paper-cutter lying near ; 
he played with it ; he laid it down. 

‘ You know the contents of my husband’s will? ’ continued Lady 
Blunt, looking at the lawyer uneasily. 

‘ Yes, I executed that will in accordance with written instructions 
I received from Sir Henry.’ 

‘ Then you know he provided for his son, Robert Fletcher, and 
also directed that in the event of my agent’s death that Robert 
Fletcher had to be appointed in his place ? ’ 

‘ I remember that clause,’ said Mr Howard, looking attentively 
at his finger nails. • ~ 

‘ I thus got to know this young man,’ said Lady Blunt. ‘ He has 
been ill, and a lease somehow, in Mr Chester’s time, had become 
mislaid. I was searching for this lease the night before last. I 
opened a trunk of Sir Henry’s papers that had not been opened 
since his death, for the purpose of looking for this lease, and I 
came on two packets of letters from this woman.’ 

‘ And you read them ? ’ asked the lawyer, looking quickly in Lady 
Blunt’s agitated face. 

‘ — glanced at one first — I glanced at the signature. It is 

this signature that has caused me to come to you, that has caused 
me uneasiness ! This person’s letters were signed — all signed as 
though she had been Sir Henry’s legal wife — they were signed, 
“ Your affectionate wife^ Mary Blunt*” 


What the Lawyer knew. 127 

‘And did you gather any other information from these letters?’ 
asked Mr Howard slowly. 

‘ He had deceived her, it seems ! ’ answered Lady Blunt, quickly 
and passionately. ‘Yes, I think he had deceived her — poor, poor 
unfortunate woman to trust in him. You know what he was, Mr 
Howard ? ’ went on Lady Blunt, with rising passion, ‘ a faithless, 
dishonourable man ! He married me for my fortune. He deceived 
this poor wretch, I suppose, because she had been too good to live 
with him on other terms.^ 

‘ Then you are satisfied he deceived her ? ’ asked the lawyer. 

‘ Of course I am satisfied ! If I were not satisfied, good God ! 
my boy — Sir Harry — would not be heir ! ’ 

‘Not in case of this marriage,’ said the lawyer slowly. 

‘ He dare not ! he dare not ! ’ cried Lady Blunt, in great excite- 
ment. ‘ What object had he in such deceit ! Besides, by his will, 
he left everything after my death, did he not, to my son ?’ 

Mr Howard made no answer. He rose and walked once or 
twice up and down the office ; he looked as if he were thinking 
very seriously, and as he went Lady Blunt’s anxious eyes followed 
him. 

‘ What do you advise ?’ she said, at length. 

‘ I think you had best let it alone,’ said the lawyer, pausing 
before Lady Blunt’s chair ; ‘ this lady was dead before you married 
Sir Henry. Sir Henry left everything to you for your life. I 
would leave these letters alone.’ 

‘ But, Mr Howard, do you not see,’ said Lady Blunt eagerly, 
‘ that claims might be raised after my death ? This woman, in one 
of her letters, even mentioned the church — a city church, where 
she evidently believed she was married.’ 

‘And you read all this? The name of the church — every 
thing?’ 

‘Yes, the name of the church was St Jude’s — yes, I read it — and 
I brought the letters.’ And Lady Blunt drew from her bag the two 
packets of letters she had tied together and brought from Weirmere. 

‘ These are the letters,’ she said, and she laid them down, but Mr 
Howard did not take them up. 

‘ We must remember,’ he said, ‘ that whatever secret there was 
between this lady and Sir Henry, it was not intended to be known 
to you, Lady Blunt, and only became suspected by an accident.’ 

‘ But you do not think he really married her?’ asked Lady Blunt, 
sharply and eagerly. ‘ But if you think so, for a moment think so, 
there is the register at this church. That would prove it, or dis- 
prove it, would it not ? ’ 

‘Yes, but the question is, do you wish to prove it. Lady Blunt?’ 

‘ Mr Howard,’ said Lady Blunt, rising with pride and dignity, ‘ if 
I believed that my late husband was married first to this unhappy 
person, and that their child was the legal heir and not my child, do 
you think I could live and do such a wrong as this ? All my life I 
have walked straight ; I will not falter now.’ 

‘ I am deeply grieved, more grieved than I can tell you, Lady 
Blunt. Sir Henry never meant this to come to your knowledge ; 


128 Out of Eden. 

his will was especially devised to prevent it coming to your know- 
ledge — ^ 

‘Then he married her?’ interrupted Lady Blunt, in a sharp 
voice of pain. 

‘ So I understood,’ said the lawyer, ‘ but I was bound to secrecy. 
Sir Henry wished you never to know ; he was grateful to you for 
the fortune you brought him, which you with — pardon me — too 
generous goodness, had not settled on yourself, and, as you know, 
he left this fortune, and his own fortune also, to you in uncontrolled 
possession for your life — ’ 

‘ But at my death he left to it Harry — to my son?’ interrupted 
Lady Blunt eagerl3% 

‘ Have you seen the will ? ’ said Mr Howard. 

‘No, but Mr Chester told me of it. He said Sir Harry had left 
everything to me, then to the heir, my son ?’ 

‘ Whom Mr Chester naturally supposed to be the undisputed 
heir ? Lady Blunt, I grieve much to distress you, but you know so 
much now, I may as well tell you all at least that I know. I 
suppose you would rather I should do this.’ 

‘ Yes, certainly, yes ! ’ 

* Then Sir Henry devised his will thus : He left everything to 
you for your lifetime, with the exception of two annuities of five 
hundred a-year each—’ 

‘ I know — to Robert Fletcher and to Harry ! ’ 

‘To his two sons in fact. After your death, all the property now 
held by you goes by Sir Henry’s will to the heir — the legal heir — 
so it is especially named in the will of the title. Now, if Sir Henry 
married this first lady, her son — ’ 

‘ Is the heir,’ said Lady Blunt, almost in a whisper, and she grew 
deadly pale ; ‘ my son in this case — ’ 

‘ Is but the second son ; it is a cruel case. Lady Blunt. Sir Henry 
was most anxious to spare you this knowledge ; but one person and 
myself knew of it — ’ 

‘And that one person?’ asked Lady Blunt, with white, quivering 
lips. 

‘ Is the heir. In fact, the young man called now Robert Flet- 
cher : the young man you appointed — ' 

But he was interrupted by a low wail from Lady Blunt. 

‘ What ! he knew — he knew ! ’ 

‘His father told him on his deathbed. He too was bound to 
secrecy. In your lifetime this never was to be known. His own 
sister, that beautiful girl they call Miss Fletcher, knows nothing of it.’ 

‘ Oh ! my boy ; my poor, poor boy ! ’ moaned Lady Blunt, and 
she covered her face. 

‘ It is a cruel case,’ said the lawyer, full of pity for the unhappy 
mother ; ‘ cruel to your son, and cruel also to this other young man 
who has been forced into a false position through no fault of his own. 
I wish you had never learnt this. Lady Blunt — from the bottom of 
my heart I wish you had never learnt it.’ 

‘And you think there is no doubt?’ said Lady Blunt, lifting up 
her white face. 


What the Lawyer knew. 1 29 

* I fear not, but we can easily assure ourselves. I know the Vicar 
of this St Jude’s Church, for I have some property in the neigh- 
bourhood, and a line to him — but shall I write it Would you 
rather know ? Remember it is doing the elder son no harm ; his 
future inheritance is assured.’ 

‘ And my boy disgraced and deceived ! ’ cried Lady Blunt, in 
maternal anguish ; ‘ he had better know ; it is better he should know.’ 

‘ For one thing, yes,’ said the lawyer ; ‘excuse me. Lady Blunt, 
but you have a large income. In the case of this earlier marriage 
being an undoubted fact, which, of course, an examination of the 
register of St Jude’s of the day mentioned by the lady in the letters 
you have here will determine, in that case I would advise that you 
settle the savings out of your income on your own son without delay. 
You have a perfect right to do this, and it will secure him in any 
case a handsome provision ! ’ 

But Lady Blunt only made a bitter moan in answer to this sug- 
gestion. She knew well where her large savings had gone ; John 
Chester had taken them ; she had scarcely anything to leave Harry. 
Robert Fletcher would have all. 

‘ In the meanwhile shall I write to the Vicar of St Jude’s ?’ said 
Mr Howard. 

‘ Yes, write ; write now,’ answered Lady Blunt. ‘ I will wait here 
till I know. It is better to know the worst.’ 

‘ I wish you had not known,’ said Mr Howard again, and then he 
sat down to write his letter, and Lady Blunt turned away her head. 
Conceive her bitterness — her misery ! Robert Fletcher the heir, the 
heir not only to his father’s property, but to all the great estate she 
had brought to Sir Henry in her fond, lavish, girlish love, when she 
refused to have anything settled on herself, and trusted a worthless 
man alike with her money and her love. There was no law in those 
days to protect a woman’s property, and Lady Blunt knew, as she 
sat there, that Sir Henry’s will would hold good, though she did not 
believe that Robert Fletcher would take the full advantage of it. 

‘ He is good, he is noble,’ she thought, reflecting on the character 
of her husband’s son ; ‘ no, he will not leave my boy in poverty. 
But to think that it will be in his power ! ’ and Lady Blunt could 
not suppress a moan. 

Mr Howard looked round at her compassionately. 

‘ I have written the letter to my friend the vicar. Lady Blunt,’ he 
said, ‘and now, with your permission, I will refer to this lady’s 
letters about the date ’ (and he took up the letters Lady Blunt had 
brought). ‘ Yes, here is the date ; but before I send this let me 
again ask you, have you well considered the consequences ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ answered Lady Blunt huskily ; ‘ yes, it is better in my life- 
time. Let me share the pain if my boy is disinherited. Yes, some 
arrangements for the future may be made, if this turns out true, with 
Mr Fletcher.’ 

‘ I think so,’ said Mr Howard. ‘Nay, I am sure of it ; he is a 
fine fellow, this young man — Sir Henry’s eldest son.’ 

The lawyer was thinking at that moment ‘ a very much finer fellow 
than Sir Henry’s second son,’ for he knew young Harry Blunt through 

1 


1 30 Out of Eden. 

a slight business transaction, and the young man had not made a 
very favourable impression on the shrewd old lawyer. But he was 
sorry for the mother. 

‘ 1 will send my letter then,’ he said, ‘ with a confidential clerk, 
and I will ask my friend the Vicar of St Jude’s to send a copy of the 
register of this marriage if it took place on the date the lady mentions 
here ’ (and he laid his hand on one of Mary’s letters). ‘ It will take 
some time to make this inquiry. Lady Blunt. Will you remain here, 
or shall I forward the vicar’s reply to your hotel ? ’ 

‘ I will stay here,’ said Lady Blunt ; ‘ I— I could not bear any 
longer suspense.’ 

‘ In that case you will excuse me, for I am very busy this morning, 
but when the vicar’s answer arrives I will come to you at once. In 
the meantime you must have some wine — ^ 

‘No,’ said Lady Blunt, shaking her head, and then she turned 
her eyes to the clock standing on the mantel-piece, and taking the 
hint Mr Howard took up his letter and went away. 

Tick, tick, went the clock — silent, mysterious time strode on — 
tick, tick, its indicator marked its tread. In Lady Blunt’s heart, 
too, a dull, cold throb kept pace with each passing moment as it 
flew. She was conscious of this pain, yet her mind travelled away 
from it. Strange fancies seemed to possess her, and scenes from 
her youth came back out of the long, cold vista of the past. She 
remembered the first day she had met Sir Harry, the handsome 
man bowing before her. He must have been a married man then, 
now thought Lady Blunt with a ghastly smile. 

She remembered when her boy was born ; the warm gush of 
maternal love that came like sunshine to her chilled and disap- 
pointed heart. She remembered his father never seemed to care 
much for the babe, and then — and then she began thinking of John 
Chester. 

‘ O John, forgive me ! ’ she prayed, half aloud. She had broken 
her word to her dead friend ; broken it to try to save her son — 
Sir Harry — from a marriage beneath his state ! Sir Harry — not 
Sir Harry now perhaps — a poor boy — a poor boy with no fortune 
— nothing — almost nothing, and Florence Chester had married him ! 

One after the other 'such thoughts flashed through her poor, 
labouring, aching heart. She put her hand to her side, she sighed. 
The clerk had been gone three-quarters of an hour ; in another he 
might be back. The other quarter went slowly away ; then another 
and another. Would he never come? Lady Blunt felt sick and 
faint ; she would have been glad of the wine now she had refused 
before. Somehow at this moment she remembered thinking of the 
feelings of a man waiting to hear the verdict of the jury — life or 
death. ‘ What folly,’ she said, trying to rouse herself ; ‘ it is not 
life or death, only poverty and disgrace.’ 

The handle of the door now turned, and with a violent start Lady 
Blunt rose to her feet, and, as she did so, Mr Howard and a pleas- 
ant-faced clergyman walked in. 

‘ I have brought my friend, Mr Makeplace, the Vicar of St Jude’s, 
to see you,’ said Mr Howard ; and Lady Blunt knew, as she heard 


The Ttvo Heirs — Sir Robert, 131 

the ring of condolence and sympathy in his voice, that Mr Make- 
place had come to break the news to her — that she had been her 
husband’s second wife ! 

‘ What have you found ? ’ she had strength and courage to ask. 

Mr Howard shook his head. 

‘ I have no good news, Lady Blunt,’ he said. ‘ Sir Henry married 
this first lady on the day she names in her letter, the day after she 
left her father’s house. Her son was born about a year later. I 
fear there is no doubt that he is the heir.’ 

‘ I married Sir Henry Blunt to Miss Fletcher — ’ began the clergy- 
man, but with an emphatic gesture Lady Blunt stopped him. 

‘It is enough,’ she said, ‘my boy then is nothing. I will go 
home now, Mr Howard. I feel rather faint. Where are my people ? ’ 
And she staggered and would have fallen, but Mr Howard caught 
her in his arms. 

‘ My dear lady,’ he said, ‘ this is a great trial, but still remember 
it does not in the least affect your own position. The first Lady 
Blunt was dead before—’ 

‘ I feel rather faint,’ repeated Lady Blunt, with her bloodless lips, 
and then her head reeled and fell to one side, and Mr Howard, 
glancing at her face, gave a short exclamation. 

‘ Good God !’ he said, ‘ Makeplace, send for a doctor, I believe 
she is — ’ 

He did not utter the word, but as he paused, the second Lady ' 
Blunt died in his arms, and her sad and labouring heart grew still. 
The shock had been too much for her, they said ; the long hours 
of anxiety had snapped her frail thread of life, and with one deep 
gasping sigh her spirit winged itself away from her bitter cares. 


CHAPTER XXL 
THE TWO HEIRS— SIR ROBERT. 

On the same day Appleby telegraphed the news of Lady Blunt’s 
sudden death down to Weirmere Hall, and naturally great excite 
ment prevailed there. And sincere regret, too, filled the hearts ot 
her old servants when they heard they would see their lady no 
more. Lady Blunt had been cold, but kind and considerate always, 
and many tears were shed by those who remembered this, and 
prophesied sadly enough ‘she was better than they who would 
- come after her.’ 

Young Harry, indeed, was no particular favourite at Weirmere, 
and then his marriage— still fresh in the minds of the household- 
had been esteemed particularly unsatisfactory. 

‘ It killed his poor mother,’ said Mrs Walsh, the housekeeper, 
whose eyes were red with crying over Appleby’s mournful news. 
‘ Ay, she never got over it. Appleby said it would be the death 
of her when he lifted her up after she read the letter Miss Florence 
left ; but we mustn’t say Miss Florence now,’ added Mrs Walsh, 


132 Out of Eden, 

with a touch of worldly prudence even amid her grief; ‘she^s my 
lady now, but it seems all very strange and queer at first.’ 

The telegram had been sent by Appleby to Mrs Walsh, and it 
gave Mrs Walsh a feeling of melancholy importance. 

‘ I think I must just put on my bonnet and slip down to tell the 
doctor and Mrs Humphrey,’ she said, to the sympathising maids 
before the evening was over. ‘ I am sure they ought to hear, being 
so long connected with my poor lady ; and Mr Fletcher should 
hear, too, I think. Yes ; I will go. It’s my duty, though I have 
little heart for it.’ 

So Mrs Walsh went with her mournful tale, first to Robert’s 
cottage, and then to Lansdowne Lodge to tell Mrs Humphrey. At 
Robert’s cottage the news created extraordinary excitement. 

Mrs Walsh asked to see Miss Fletcher, and when she told Mary 
Lady Bluut was dead, Mary felt the remorseful feeling which vve do 
when we hear of the death of those whom we have unjustly disliked. 

Mary had disliked Lady Blunt simply because she was Lady 
Blunt. She stood in the place which ought to have been Mary’s 
own mother’s, Mary unreasonably thought ; and, therefore, her very 
name had been an insult, and her sight an eyesore ‘to the proud 
nature that smarted under, and so resented, her rnother’s wrongs. 
But when she heard the poor lady was dead ; had died so sadly and 
suddenly away from her home, and so shortly after the known bitter 
trial of her son’s marriage, Mary felt grieved and self-reproachful. 

‘ It is very, very sad,’ she said, and she went upstairs, subdued 
and grave, to tell her brother. 

‘ Robert,’ she said, going up to his bedside and taking his hand, 

‘ I have got some news for you ; some news that I am afraid will 
make you very sad.’ 

Robert’s thin face flushed, and he looked quickly and eagerly in 
Mary’s face. He knew now that Florence was married ; in fact, 
he had asked Ur Humphrey to tell him everything that had 
happened during the time he was unconscious, and Dr Humphrey, 
understanding what he wished to know, had told him the truth, and 
Robert had borne the news very well. It is uncertainty — not the 
knowledge of failure or disappointment — that is so terrible to bear. 
Most of us, like the Psalmist of old, when hope is over, rise and 
make up our minds to the worst. It is over, the dream, the love, 
our heart’s desire, and we must live, and as we live we learn forget- 
fulness. Robert, too, despised Florence ; she had married un- 
worthily, for motives naturally small in Robert’s eyes, and though 
her unworthiness did not take away the bitterness of the sting, it 
yet lessened the bitterness of regret. 

But still, when Mary told him she had some news — news that 
would make him sad — Robert’s first thought was of Florence, and 
Mary guessed this as she saw his thin face flush. 

‘ It is about Lady Blunt,’ said Mary ; ‘Mrs Walsh, the house- 
keeper, is downstairs — I know you will be sorry, dear Robert — 
Lady Blunt died suddenly in London this morning.’ 

To Mary’s surprise Robert now started up in bed, the flush deep- 
ening all over his face and throat. 


The Tivo Heirs — Sir Robert. 133 

* Lady Blunt dead ! ’ he said, and he looked in his sister’s face. 
* Are you sure of this, Mary ? There is no mistake ? How did the 
news come ? 

> ‘ Appleby telegraphed it to Mrs Walsh. Lady Blunt died at a 
lawyer’s office — Mr Howard’s office — very suddenly. The doctors 
say it was heart disease,’ answered Mary. 

Robert sank back in the bed in silence. He lay thus a few mo- 
ments trying to realise (without exciting himself) the great change 
that this would make to Mary and to himself. 

‘ I wonder where her son is — Sir Harry?’ said Mary. 

Then Robert looked at his sister and held out his hand. 

‘ Poor Lady Blunt’s death will make a great difference to us, 
Molly,’ he said. 

‘Yes, naturally,’ answered Mary, with a blush spreading over 
her fine skin. ‘ Of course you will not, under the circumstances, 
continue to act as agent to the estates ?’ 

Robert gave a sort of smile, and bit his lips ; he was excited, he 
could not help himself, and he was afraid almost to break his news 
to Mary. '' 

‘ No,’ he said, presently, ‘ I won’t act as agent. Mary,’ he con- 
tinued ; ‘ poor Lady Blunt’s death releases me from a solemn pro- 
mise given to our father on his death-bed.’ 

‘ To our father ! ’ repeated Mary, with parted lips, and she gave 
a sort of start. 

‘ Yes, you must prepare yourself, Molly, as I said, for a great 
change. I know you have grieved very much about our mother. 
You need not have grieved, dear, nor have been ashamed.’ 

‘ Robert ! ’ cried Mary, breathless, and she grew pale. 

‘ Our mother was Sir Henry Blunt’s first wife, Mary,’ said Robert, 
holding out his hand to his sister j ‘now, dear, do not excite your- 
self. It is all right, Mary. On his death-bed our poor father told 
me this, but before he did so he made me give a solemn promise 
never to tell it in Lady Blunt’s lifetime — ’ 

‘ It was cruel, too cruel ! ’ interrupted Mary, with sudden indig- 
nation and passion. ‘ What right had he — how dare he make us 
suffer as he has done ! ’ 

‘ He thought himself bound in honour to Lady Blunt,’ said Robert. 
‘ Come, Mary, make some allowance for him ; he had married 
Lady Blunt for money, and she, with foolish generosity, had not 
had any part of her fortune settled on herself, and he had spent 
some of her money, wasted it, I am afraid; and Lady Blunt of 
course, not knowing of his first marriage with our mother at the 
time of her own marriage, naturally concluded her son would be the 
heir.’ 

‘ The heir 1 ’ repeated Mary, looking eagerly at Robert. She had 
not yet comprehended all the difference that her mother’s marriage 
would make. 

‘ He had, in fact, deceived her,’ said Robert, ‘ probably knowing, 
or thinking, at least, that she would not have married him had she 
known of a former wife and son. Do you see, Mary ? He took the 
poor woman in as regards her position and her son’s future position, 


134 Out of Eden. 

and he did not wish to give her the pain of knowing this. But he 
grew fond of me, I think, before he died ; and one night he told me 
the whole story, charging me on my honour never to repeat it — 
never even to hint it to you.’ 

‘ May God forgive him, then ! ’ said Mary, with great bitterness. 
‘ I don’t think I can. He has spoilt my life ! ’ 

‘ Nonsense, child, nonsense. Spoilt your life indeed ! What 
folly. Why, Mary, I mean to be very proud of my handsome 
sister yet.’ 

But Mary made no answer. She was thinking of the dull morn- 
ing by the lake side — thinking when her lips had said no and her 
heart had said yes. 

‘ I pity Harry Blunt,’ said Robert. 

‘ Why should you pity him .?’ said Mary. 

Robert shrugged his shoulders and gave a little laugh. 

‘ No, why indeed he said. 

‘ He did not show much consideration for you,’ continued Mary. 
‘ He — he — and Florence deserve — ’ 

‘ I think we will leave her name out of the discussion,’ said Robert, 
and he cast down his eyes. 

They might leave out her name, but they both were thinking of her ; 
Mary with triumphant pride, Robert with the mingled feelings with 
which we regard those w^e have loved, knowing them to be unworthy 
of that love. 

‘And you are sure, quite sure, of all this.?’ said Mary. 

‘ Quite sure. My father gave me copies of the register of his 
marriage with our mother, and of your birth and mine ; he told 
me the church, too, where he was married, and the name of the 
clergyman ; and one other person knows all this also. It is very 
strange, but you said poor Lady Blunt died at Mr Howard’s offices, 
did you not .? Mr Howard was in our father’s confidence ; he knew 
he had a son when he married Lady Blunt.’ — 

‘ Oh ! Robert ! ’ said Mary, and her eyes filled with tears, ‘ then 
you are really Sir Robert Blunt?’ 

Robert smiled. 

‘Yes, little Molly,’ he said, ‘ I have the honour to be Sir Robert ; 
have been Sir Robert for some years now, though forced to hide 
my light, or rather my name, under a bushel.’ 

‘ It’s a shame ! a shame ! ’ 

‘ It is all over now, at any rate ; will Miss Mary Blunt give me 
a kiss ? Perhaps better not, when I think of it ; and yet, poor 
Lady Blunt, I am sorry, very sorry, for her death, though it has 
taken a great burden from me, and a burden that I ffilt still heavier, 
I think, my dear, for it rested on your shoulders.’ 

Mary could not help giving a little sob. She flung herself into 
her brother’s arms ; she kissed him again and again, and as she 
did so he heard her murmur a word of prayer and thankfulness. 

‘ Thank God,’ she whispered, ‘ thank God, my dear, that you 
were spared for this.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Robert simply, and he was glad. 

‘And what must we do next?’ said Mary, in woman-like fashion. 


The Two Heh's — Sir Robert. 135 

*We had better do nothing just yet,’ said Robert, smiling; ‘I 
have to get strong first, please ; and no doubt in a day or two we 
shall hear from the lawyer.’ 

They heard the next day. By the first post a letter arrived for 
Robert from Mr Howard, announcing Lady Blunt’s sudden death, 
and congratulating him on his own rightful accession to name and 
fortune. 

‘ Mr Harry Blunt,’ wrote the lawyer, ‘ I hear is abroad with his 
newly-married wife, and he has been telegraphed for to come to 
his mother’s funeral. Until that sad ceremony is over, I should 
not advise you to move in this matter. Then our course is quite 
clear ; your father’s marriage to your mother — the first Lady Blunt 
— is proved beyond all question by the testimony of my friend Mr 
Makeplace, the Vicar of St Jude’s, who married them, and by the 
register of the church. I conclude Mr Harry Blunt will not be 
foolish enough to dispute your claim ; at least no honest lawyer 
would advise him to waste his money on so hopeless a case. 

Robert handed this letter to Mary after he had read it. Both 
the brother and sister had spent almost a sleepless night. The 
change was so great — to Robert so sudden, to Mary so entirely un- 
expected. And Mary understood now the terrible struggle Robert 
must have gone through. He had kept this secret when he must 
have known very well that by so doing he had lost the woman he 
had so passionately loved. She remembered now how he had 
called out again and again in the delirium of his sleep about my 
lady. This had been the lure that had tempted Florence, and 
what must have been the bitterness of Robert’s heart when he had 
seen his younger brother preferred before him ; a brother so com- 
pletely inferior to himself in every way ; preferred for the sake of 
what was in reality Robert’s own. 

‘ She was always unworthy of him,’ thought Mary, turning her 
restless head on her pillow ; ‘ thank God, he must know this now ; 
he will care nothing for her now.’ 

And she thanked God for something else too. ‘ Dear mother, 
dear mother,’ she whispered, ‘ forgive me, forgive me ! ’ She had 
scarcely dared to think of her mother until now. She had blushed 
when she had heard her name, and turned away her beautiful 
shamed face. Now, with strange, wistful regret and tenderness, 
she kept repeating her name. And she was proud too, proud for 
Robert’s sake, and perhaps a little for her own. 

‘ He will understand,’ she kept repeating to herself. ‘ I could 
not marry him when I had no name — now — ’ But she did not de- 
cide what she meant to do now. 

And Robert ? Shall we look into his heart and read it, as he, 
too, lay sleepless through the long hours of the night after he 
heard of Lady Blunt’s sudden death ? He had liked Lady Blunt, 
and some real regret and sorrow were mingled with his undoubted 
satisfaction that at last his own rights would be recognised, and 
his mother’s name and Mary’s freed from any stigma or disgrace. 
He was pleased — what man would not have been pleased — and 
was there no under- current of bitter pleasure, too, in the thought 


136 Out of Eden. 

of the punishment that would now fall on the girl who had thrown 
away his strong, warm love ? He would have denied this, even to 
himself ; he did, perhaps, deny it, but, nevertheless, was it not 
there ? The thought flushed his thin cheek ; it made him feel the 
weakness and weariness of his illness less ; so much so that when 
Dr Humphrey came in the morning, he looked with surprise at his 
patient. 

‘You have made a wonderful starV he said. ‘Well, you 
have heard the sad news, I suppose ? — we have lost our old 
friend.’ 

‘ Poor Lady Blunt,’ said Robert. 

‘ I did all I could to prevent her going, but she would go. She 
had some strong reason for going, but^ I knew she was very unfit ; 
that young scamp her son, in fact, killed her, for she had a very 
severe attack when she heard of his marriage, and she has never 
recovered from it.’ 

‘ Had you any idea of her reason for going to town ?’ asked 
Robert gravely. 

‘ It was connected with some letters ; she had made some dis- 
covery, for she said it was right she should know the truth — I sup- 
pose something about young Harry.’ 

For a moment Robert was silent. Then he said, still very 
gravely,— 

‘ You are an old friend, Humphrey. I have got a piece of news 
for you, only don’t mention it to anyone at present — but will you 
read this ?’ and he put Mr Howard’s letter into Dr Arthur’s hand, 
who read it, and then looked at Robert in great sui-prise. 

‘ I do not understand,’ he said. 

‘ I have always known this,’ said Robert quickly ; ‘ I am the 
eldest son, that is all : my father married our poor mother when 
she ran away with him, but it was kept a secret, and Lady Blunt 
never knew there was another wife and another son.’ 

‘ Then you are Sir Robert Blunt ? ’ said Dr Arthur slowly, look- 
ing at Robert still with his dark, penetrating eyes, and with a 
strange, cold feeling of disappointment in his own heart, for he 
thought of Mary. 

‘ At your service,’ answered Robert, with a laugh. 

Dr Arthur did not speak ; his mind travelled back at that 
moment to his own vacillations about Mary ; how he had decided 
against that love until circumstances had been too strong for him, 
and now she was further away from him than ever. 

‘You will live at the Hall, I suppose? ’he said, presently, in a 
changed, constrained voice. 

‘ Yes, that was my father’s place, you know ; we have been 
Blunts of Weirmere for generations. Lady Blunt did not bring 
Weirmere Hall.’ 

‘ No,’ said Dr Arthur ; and then he made an effort. ‘ Well,’ 
he said, with a smile, ‘ it’s a grand thing for my patient’s poor 
tenants. Sir Robert will make a better landlord than that little 
cub — I always disliked him.’ 

‘ Thank you,’ said Sir Robert heartily ; ‘ shake hands, Humphrey, 


The Two Heirs — Sir Harry. 1 3 ; 

I’ve to thank you for my life, I am quite sure, and you’ll find 1 
won’t forget the debt.’ 

Dr Arthur smiled, but grimly. He is beginning to act the patron 
already, he thought cynically, though this was the very last idea in 
Robert’s mind. But the two men parted in a very friendly fashion ; 
Robert again impressing on Dr Arthur that for the present he had 
to make no mention of any coming change. 

‘ Poor Flo Chester ! ’ thought the doctor, as he rode away from 
the cottage by the lake ; ‘ she held the trump card and flung it away.’ 
And the doctor laughed softly to himself ; the trivial misfortunes and 
mischances of others, particularly when wrought by their own hands, 
being not displeasing to the human mind. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE TWO HEIRS— SIR HARRY. 

* Dear Sir, — The melancholy news, I suppose, will have reached 
you of my mother’s sudden death. I have decided that the funeral 
shall take place from Weirmere Hall on the 21st inst., and I shall 
feel obliged if you will see about all necessary arrangements, and 
orward instructions to Messrs Plunket & Blackwood, the under- 
takers in town. I have just arrived from Paris, and I will come 
down to Weirmere on the 20th to attend the funeral, and trust you 
will have everything in readiness when I arrive. 

‘ I hope you have quite recovered from your recent illness ; and 
I remain, dear sir, yours truly, Henry Blunt.’ 

This letter, written in Harry Blunt’s unformed schoolboy hand, 
and addressed to R. Fletcher, Esq., The Cottage, Weirmere, was 
delivered by the postman to Robert two days after he had heard 
the news of Lady Blunt’s death. He felt angry, somehow, as he 
read it. It was the letter of a master to a servant, ‘though 
Mr Harry knows we had one father, at any rate,’ thought Robert 
grimly. 

‘ Here are our brother’s orders,’ he said to Mary, and after Mary 
had read the letter she flung it indignantly on the floor. 

‘ Impertinence ! ’ she said. 

‘ He is a cool young cub enough,’ said Robert, picking up the 
letter, ‘ but I am not going to obey his orders ; at the same time 
I do not wish to be disrespectful to the memory of Lady Blunt. 
I’ll get Humphrey to telegraph or write to Master Harry to tell 
him I’m not well enough ta see after anything ; he must make 
other arrangements.’ 

And Robert acted on this decision. He sent for Dr Arthur, and 
smilingly handed him Harry Blunt’s letter (he had got over his 
anger by this time, feeling that he was riding the winning horse), 
and Dr Arthur smiled too when he read it. 

‘ Poor boy,’ he said, ‘ won’t he storm ! ’ 


138 Out of Eden. 

‘ Well, be a good fellow and write to him, Humphrey. Say your 
interesting patient, Mr Robert Fletcher, is still in too delicate a 
state of health to obey his commands,^ and that he had better see 
after— no, it’s a shame to jest on such a subject — tell him, Hum- 
phrey, 1 really am incapable of doing anything, and that I have 
asked you to write to tell him this. That will do ; he’ll hear soon 
enough now. I’ve had another letter from Howard, and he pro- 
poses to come down to Lady Blunt’s funeral, and after the funeral 
is over, to break to Master Harry that he is not the heir.’ 

‘ I would like to see his face during the operation,’ said Dr 
Arthur. ‘ A strong man would wince ; what will a stupid, pompous 
little fool do 

‘ Swear, I should think,’ said Robert. 

‘ Keep out of his way, for fear he murders you ; I advise it 
seriously,’ said Dr Arthur, still smiling. 

Robert shrugged his shoulders. 

‘ I wish to keep out of his way,’ he said, ‘but, of course, certain 
arrangements will have to be made. However, we need not talk 
of these just now.’ 

‘ In the meantime, I shall write,’ said Humphrey, and he did 
write, and in return received a scrawl note from Harry Blunt. 

‘ Appleby will see about everything,’ wrote the young man, in 
reply to the doctor’s information that Robert Fletcher was unfit to 
do so : ‘ and as you have attended my poor mother so long, I shall 
be glad if you will come to the funeral. My wife and I come down 
the day after to-morrow ; Appleby brings down poor mother to- 
day,’ and so, on. 

And these arrangements were carried out. Appleby brought 
down the cold, chill form of the old mistress, and the new mistress 
came with her husband, gracious and smiling, and^ was received 
with proper respect by the household, over which she was supposed 
now to come to rule. 

She looked very handsome, the new Lady Blunt, they said, in 
her fashionable mourning, and with the calm gracious air of 
command that seemed to fit her so well. Bessie Chester was with 
her, and Bessie Chester asked Jenkins (the late lady’s old maid) 
for the keys of her late lady’s jewel-cases on the very first night of 
their arrival at Weirmere. 

‘I could have knocked her down,’ said Jenkins bitterly; ‘her 
impertinence, indeed ; and my dear lady not laid in her grave yet. 
Did they think I was going to steal her jewels, poor dear, that I’ve 
had charge of this many a year .?’ 

Jenkins said this to Appleby, but Appleby only shook his head. 
He had grieved very sincerely for his old lady, but he wished to 
remain for the present at Weirmere, and therefore he knew it was 
no use to offend the new rulers. As for Bessie Chester, she was 
irnmensely amused at Jenkins’s rage, and had asked for the keys 
without her sister’s permission, ‘just to pay the old woman 
off,’ said Bessie, with a laugh ; but Florence felt and looked 
annoyed. 

‘ You should not have done this, Bessie,’ she said (the sisters 


The Two Heirs — Sir Harry, 1 39 

were alone. ‘Why offend the feelings of these people ? Besides, 
it seems so heartless, before poor Lady Blunt is buried.’ 

‘What right had she to keep the keys?’ said Bessie. ‘Old 
wretch ! I’ve not forgotten the first night we came here, wh^ Lady 
Blunt could scarcely get her to be civil to us. Now it’s our turn. 
I said it would be some day, don’t you remember, Flo ? but I did 
not hope it would be so soon.’ 

‘Flo’ only sighed in reply to this, and sat somewhat wearily 
down. 

‘It’s lovely coming back here, isn’t it, as my lady?’ continued 
Bessie. ‘ It makes up for everything, seeing them all bow down to 
us like they used to do to the old woman. I don’t say Harry isn’t 
* trying sometimes, but this makes up for all.’ 

‘ I wish Harry had taken a fancy to you, then,’ said Florence, 
with a sort of vague smile ; ‘ that would have made it all right.’ 

‘ Yes, I’m sure I wish he had,’ said Bessie, with a little comical 
shrug ; ‘however, he didn’t, and I’m very glad he did to you at any 
rate. So, here are the keys of your jewel-cases, my -Lady Blunt ’ 
(and Bessie laughed) ; ‘you should have seen old Jenkins’s face 
when she was obliged to give them up ; and mind take care of 
them, for the old lady had some splendid diamonds.’ 

‘ You can lay them down,’ said Florence carelessly ; but Bessie 
was too prudent ; she had got the keys, and she kept them, care- 
fully locking them away in her sister’s presence. 

When she was actually doing this, young Harry Blunt walked 
into the bedroom where the sisters were, with very scant ceremony. 

‘ I say, Flo,’ he said, sharply, ‘ what the deuce have you done with 
my keys ? I want my cheque-book ; you must have taken up the 
keys.’ 

‘ I’ve done nothing of the sort, Harry,’ answered his wife. 

‘But you must have!’ stormed Harry. ‘Who else dare have 
touched them ? You must have them among some of your trash 
here.’ 

‘ You can look then,’ said Florence. 

‘That’s cool, I must say!’ said Harry. ‘You two, who owe 
everything to me coming queening it here as if you had been born to 
it. But you may give yourself airs to others, but not to me mind ! 
I’ll be master here, I can tell you, whoever is mistress ; confounded 
coolness indeed ! ’ 

‘ I wouldn’t quite forget that your mother isn’t buried yet,’ said 
Florence scornfully. 

At this moment Appleby rapped at the bedroom door. 

‘ Your keys are here. Sir Henry,’ he said ; ‘ you had left them in 
the portmanteau ; ’ and so Harry was forced to go grumbling away, 
and Florence looked at her sister as he went. 

‘He’s very charming, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘You talk of being 
Lady Blunt. If you have to pay for the honour by being the wife 
of Sir Harry Blunt, the price is too heavy ! ’ 

‘ You don’t make the best of him, Flo ; you should flatter him 
more ; he’s tiresome and bad-tempered, but if you made up to him, 
you would have more influence with him.’ 


140 Out of Eden, 

‘ I bale him too much to make up to him, as you call it,’ said Flo 
passionately. ‘ He’s always bullying or making rows about some- 
thing. I wish I had never seen his face.’ 

‘ Oh, Flo, don’t forget what a dreadful position it was ; don’t 
forget poor father died and left us absolutely penniless. I don’t say 
Harry’s pleasant — he’s a spoilt boy in fact, spoilt by being rich and 
all that ; so what’s the use of quarrelling with him ? ’ 

‘ What, indeed,’ said Florence, with a shrug, and when they went 
down to dinner she tried to take her sister’s advice, and began 
talking amicably to her husband. 

‘Oh! you mean to do the civil now, do you?’ said Harry. 

‘ I’d advise you — women get nothing out of me by being disagree- 
able ; women have got to be pretty, and sweet on a fellow, when 
they want anything — like you used to be, Flo, when you wanted to 
be Lady Blunt ! ’ 

And the young fellow gave a coarse laugh. 

‘How amusing you are, Harry!’ said Bessie, taking her own 
advice ; ‘ you always make me laugh.’ 

‘Oh 1 do I ?’ said Harry. ‘ Well, I advise you to be civil too ; 
but I think you do know how to play your cards better than Flo 
there.’ 

And Harry looked at his wife, who cast down her dark eyes, and 
went on with her soup, thinking all the while how heavy a price 
she paid for this and other luxuries. 

She thought this on her first night at home, and she had thought 
it many a time before during the brief days of her married life. 
But this coming to Weirmere, which had so elated Bessie, had 
seemed particularly distasteful to Florence. Everything somehow 
reminded her of the lover she had sacrificed. In this room (the 
drawing-room) she had told poor Robert she was engaged to Sir 
Harry ; there out on the terrace she had stood in the moonlight 
with her hand in her lover’s — it seemed like yesterday, and yet 
between that yesterday and now there lay so much ! 

Florence sighed and opened one of the windows, and went out 
on the terrace now. 

‘ Confound you I what are you making such a draught for ? ’ 
called Harry Blunt from within. 

Florence took no notice ; she stood there looking down on the 
dark waters of the lake, and thought with yearning regret of the 
bright autumn day she had spent with Robert in the fading woods, 
when he rowed her up the lake for the last time ; when Harry 
Blunt was waiting for them, and the love dream of Robert and 
Florence ended. 

‘Do you intend to stay mooning out there all night?* presently 
asked Harry Blunt, coming to the open window. 

‘No,’ said Florence, and she came in with a shudder. ‘ The air 
is chill,’ she said ; and Harry began calling for brandy and soda, 
and presently fell asleep in a chair. 

The next day Lady Blunt was buried. Appleby had seen to all 
arrangements, and Harry Blunt stood and received the funeral 
guests, among them being Dr Humphrey and the lawyer, Mr Howard, 


The Tzuo Heirs — Sir Harry, I4I 

and with Mr Howard came a clergyman that Harry Blunt did not 
know. 

‘ My friend, Mr Makeplace,’ said Mr Howard, introducing, with 
grave courtesy, this clergyman to his host, and Harry Blunt bowed 
and wondered who the deuce he was. 

Everything was conducted very decorously. The sad and silent 
woman whose happiness had been wrecked by believing none had 
loved her in life, in death (could her spirit have been present) would 
have found some consolation.' Bitter tears were indeed shed by 
the old servants as they carried her out, and even Florence (mobile 
of mood as ever) felt strangely moved. 

‘ Poor, poor woman ! ’ she said, as the sisters watched the sad 
procession from one of the windows. ‘ It must be terrible to die, 
Bessie — terrible ! terrible ! — yet it is so wearisome to live.?’ 

And Florence gave a heavy sigh. 

‘ The thing is to make the best of life,’ said Bessie ; ‘ there are 
always drawbacks, but no drawback is so bad as poverty. If your 
husband is ever so disagreeable you can keep out of his way, but 
you can’t keep out of the way of debts ; they stick like leeches.’ 

And Bessie laughed. 

‘ I wish I had seen her, and she had forgiven us before she died,’ 
said Florence, still thinking of Lady Blunt. 

‘ Well, we didn’t owe her much,’ said Bessie ; ‘ look how she 
behaved to poor father.’ 

Florence looked at her sister curiously. 

‘ I don’t know,’ she said ; ‘ Harry says strange things sometimes 
to me now. He keeps hinting at something poor father did ; 
perhaps Lady Blunt was not so much to blame.’ 

‘ It is all over now at any rate,’ said Bessie cheerfully. ‘ Come, 
Flo, don’t be doleful ; you are Lady Blunt now, and you can man- 
age Harry very well if you choose ; look pretty, as he said last 
night, in his boyish way, and be sweet on him : it’s not very 
difficult.’ 

‘ He is certainly remarkably ingenuous,’ scoffed Florence ; ‘ if he 
thinks a thing he tells you of it, however disagreeable it may be.’ 

‘ There is something about all men ; I daresay even if you had 
married Robert Fletcher you would have been disappointed.’ 

‘ Perhaps, only I don’t think he would have said the things that 
Harry says.’ And again Florence sighed. 

Then she went downstairs and talked to Mrs Walsh, the house- 
keeper, whose heart softened to her new lady for the gentle manner 
in which she spoke of her old mistress. 

‘ You must all feel it so much,’ Florence said, in her sympathetic 
way. ‘ Poor Lady Blunt ! the house seems desolate without her.’ 

‘ It’s sad indeed to us old folks who have known and been with 
her so long,’ said Mrs Walsh, wiping away her ready tears. 
‘ Young people naturally don’t mourn like old ones ; but I’m sure 
it’s well Sir Harry — you’ll excuse my saying so, my lady— has got 
his young wife to comfort him now that his mother is gone.’ 

Florence only answered by a vague smile. Then she asked after 
Robert Fletcher. 


142 Out of Eden, 

‘ Is he better?’ she said. 

‘ Much better, I’m told, my lady,’ said Mrs Walsh. ‘ I did heal 
he was downstairs for the first time yesterday ; but they say it was 
just a miracle he lived.’ 

‘ I am glad he is better,’ said Florence ; and then, after giving 
Mrs Walsh some directions in a restless, aimless way, she began 
wandering about the darkened rooms. 

In the meantime they had laid Lady Blunt by the side of the 
husband who had never loved her. So the dead woman and the 
dead man, who had lived apart, were left together in their solemn 
state. ‘ Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’ Would theirs 
ever mingle, whose beating hearts had been filled with distrust, 
dislike, and distaste ? 

When it was all over, when a weary woman was supposed to be 
at rest for ever, those who had stood solemnly round 'during the 
last rites now began to move gravely and slowly away. 

By chance Mr Howard, the lawyer, found himself by the side of 
Dr Arthur Humphrey, and naturally the two men began talking of 
the dead. 

‘It was heart disease, was it not?’ asked the lawyer of the 
doctor. 

‘ An advanced case of heart disease,’ answered the doctor. ‘ I 
have attended Lady Blunt for years — I knew that some shock or 
other would snap the frail thread of Ijfe.’ 

‘ She had a great shock ; a secret — an unjustifiable secret in my 
opinion, though I suppose a man will do almost anything for 
money — was suddenly and very strangely revealed to her. Are 
you coming up to the Hall now; if you do you will. hear some 
strange news ? ’ 

‘ I should rather like to go,’ said Arthur Humphrey, with a smile ; 
he had a certain curiosity to see how Harry Blunt bore it. 

‘ Do come then,’ said Mr Howard. ‘ I would prefer to have 
someone like yourself— an old friend of Lady Blunt’s — present as 
well as Mr Makeplace, when I read the late Sir Henry’s will, and 
make certain disclosures that will not be pleasant to his son.’ 

‘ I will go then,’ said Arthur Humphrey ; and he and Mr Howard 
returned to the Hall together in the same coach. 

When they arrived there, Harry Blunt was standing in the hall 
bidding some of the funeral guests good-bye ; and when he saw 
Mr Howard he advanced towards him. 

‘ You will stay and dine, Mr Howard,’ he said, ‘ won’t you, since 
you have come so far ? ’ 

‘ I cannot stay to dinner, though I thank you,’ answered the 
lawyer ; ‘ but before I leave Weirmere, I wish, in the presence of 
my friend Mr Makeplace, and any friend you desire, to read the 
contents of Lady Blunt’s will, and also of your late father’s.’ 

‘ Oh ! I suppose you know all about that ? ’ said young Harry 
carelessly. ‘ However, if you wish to read my mother’s will, you 
may as well come in here.’ And he led the way into the library. 

There followed him Mr Howard, Mr Makeplace, and Arthur 
Humphrey. 


The Tzvo Heirs — Sir Harry. 1 43 

‘Is there anyone else you desire to be present?’ asked Mr 
Howard, looking at Harry Blunt, 

‘No; it’s a mere matter of form, I suppose. There are quite 
enough witnesses.’ And he gave a little laugh. 

But the three men present looked very grave. They all knew 
what was coming, while the unconscious Harry stood a little nervous 
perhaps, but that was all, to hear the words read that deprived him 
of his supposed inheritance, 

Mr Howard cleared his throat, and also became a little nervous, 
as he drew out two lengthy documents. 

‘ I have an unpleasant office to fulhl, Mr Blunt,’ he said, looking 
at Harry. ‘ You are not aware, I am sure, that your father was 
married before he married your late mother. Lady Blunt?’ 

Harry’s dull complexion became instantly scarlet, and he answered, 
in a thick, dogged voice, — 

‘ Certainly, I was not aware of it, and I believe it a d — d 
lie ! ’ 

Mr Howard shook his head. 

‘It is, unfortunately for you,’ he said, ‘ an undoubted fact. This 
gentleman,’ and he pointed to Mr Makeplace, ‘performed the 
ceremony between your father and his first wife.’ 

‘ So you’ve come here to tell me this trumped-up story, have 
you, sir?’ said Harry, putting on his bullying air, and looking at 
Mr Makeplace ; ‘ I thought it a deuced piece of impertinence you 
coming without being asked, but I may as well tell you your old- 
world stories won’t do here.’ 

Mr Makeplace merely bowed and looked at Mr Howard, who 
now felt his task not so unpleasant. 

‘ Your late father, Sir Henry Blunt,’ he said, ‘ was married to 
Miss Mary Fletcher — ’ 

‘ Whatr interrupted Harry, almost with a shout, — ‘what ! do 
you dare to tell me that that dog of a fellow, Robert Fletcher — ’ 

‘ Is your late father’s eldest son, Mr Blunt,’ continued Mr 
Howard, with a smile ; ‘ as I was saying. Sir Henry’s first wife was 
Miss Mary Fletcher, and his eldest son, Sir Robert, now of course 
succeeds to the estates which Sir Henry left by will to your late 
mother for her life.’ 

‘ It’s a cursed lie ! invented, I suppose, by that scoundrel Fletcher, 
whom my mother brought hanging about the place ! I won’t hear 
another word of it, Mr Howard !’ shouted Harry, now quite pale 
with passion. 

‘ I am afraid you v/ill have to hear, Mr Blunt,’ said Mr Howard. 

‘ Mr Blunt ! Who is Mr Blunt ! ’ repeated Harry, trembling with 
rage. ‘ I was born Sir Henry Blunt, and I’ll thank you to address 
me thus ! ’ 

‘ I’m afraid there can’t be two heirs, Mr Blunt,’ said Mr Howard. 
‘Your elder brother, Sir Robert, is the undoubted heir to the 
baronetcy and the estates ; it’s a hard case on you. I’m ready to 
admit that, and I’ve no doubt Sir Robert will make certain allow- 
ances for your unfortunate position, but there it is — when your 
&ther married your mother, the late Lady Blunt, he had already 


144 Out of Rden, 

been married, and hat! a son and a daughter born in wedlock, an^l 
this fact he kept from your mother’s knowledge.’ 

‘ It’s a cursed lie ! the whole thing is a confounded lie !’ cried 
Harry, white with passion. ‘ Why, he left a will, my father — I’ve 
heard my mother say this a thousand times — he left a will, and 
after her death everything had to come to me ; — can you deny 
jthat, sir ? ’ 

‘ I executed that will, Mr Blunt,’ said Mr Howard, ‘and I have 
a copy of it here.’ 

. ‘ Well, sir, isn’t it true then what I said ?’ shouted Harry. 

‘ He left everything, with the exception of five hundred a-year to 
yourself, to the legal heir to the baroiietcy^ said Mr Howard slowly. 
‘ None of the property — neither his late wife’s nor his own — was 
entailed : he left thus everything to your mother for her life, after 
her death to the legal heir ; the legal heir is his eldest son born in 
wedlock, now Sir Robert Blunt’ 

‘ Sir Robert Devil ! ’ shouted Harry. ‘ Get out of the house, sir ; 
don’t insult me here any longer in my house, in my mother’s house ! 
This trumped-up story of a marriage that never took place you 
may carry elsewhere. Go out, every one of you. I will stand this 
no longer ! ’ 

‘ I think we have fulfilled our duty,’ said Mr Howard, looking at 
Mr Makeplace. 

‘ Except,’ answered that mild, benign-looking clergyman, who 
had stood a shocked listener and spectator of the young man’s 
passion, ‘ that I bear my testimony to Sir Henry Blunt’s first 
marriage, he — ’ 

‘ Will you go, or shall the servants turn you out,’ cried Harry, 
stamping with rage. 

‘We will go,’ said Mr Howard. ‘Good morning, Mr Blunt. 
What an exhilDition ! ’ he added, in Arthur Humphrey’s ear, as 
they walked out of the room. 

‘ He didn’t bear it well,’ answered Arthur Humphrey, with a 
smile. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 
THEOLDLOVE. 

Harry Blunt was like a madman after his visitors had left him. 
He went upstairs to seek his wife, trembling and almost inarticulate 
with passion. 

‘Whatever is the matter, Harry.?’ askel Florence, as he stood 
before her white, shaking, and apparently unable to speak. 

‘Matter!’ cried Harry, almost choking. ‘What do you think, 
you fool, you idiot, has happened, and all through you ? Yes, you 
have brought it all down on me ; but for you this never would have 
been raked up ; this lie, this beastly lie ! ’ 

‘ I really do not understand you,’ said Florence coldly, but 
alarmed. 


The Old Love* 145 

‘ No, you don’t understand me, you and your cursed airs ! But 
it’s you that’s done it all ; your old lover, that precious Mr Robert 
Fletcher ; what do you think ; ay, Mr Robert Fletcher is set up 
now as heir to the baronetcy and estates ! What do you think of 
thatf^ shouted young Harry, and Florence grew very pale as she 
listened. 

‘ I do not understand you,’ she said ; ‘ if you could speak with- 
out abusing me I might understand : I cannot now.’ 

‘ Understand ! It’s enough to drive a fellow mad ! A nice 
thing, indeed, the day a fellow’s mother is buried— yes, a nice 
thing to be told — to be told you have nothmg^ that’s about it. 
That’s what I’ve been told ; that scoundrel of a lawyer must have 
been bought over by Fletcher. Oh ! I see it all now ; they have 
concocted it together ; got up a case ; but if they think I’m such a 
fool as to be taken in with their cursed inventions they’re wrong, 
that’s all.’ 

‘Harry, do speak plainly. What is the matter said Florence, 
rising, and much agitated. 

‘ Am I not speaking plainly .? Well, my dear, here’s my news,’ 
said Harry, with great bitterness. ‘Your old lover, Mr Robert 
Fletcher, my illegitimate brother, as every one knew, has now 
started a claim to the title and the estates. His mother was 
married to my father, he says, before my father married my 
mother. Now, do you understand .? They insulted me downstairs, 
absolutely called him Sir Robert — Sir Robert indeed ! ’ 

‘ Oh, Harry, if this be true ! ’ said Florence, clasping her hands. 

‘ True ! It isn’t true ! Will you go and say it’s true next 1 But 
it’s a beastly sell. Coming here, too, insulting a fellow. The old 
parson, too, says he married them.’ 

‘ Says he married them ! ’ said Florence, and she grew paler still. 

‘ What are you looking like that for ? After bringing it all down 
on me, are you going to side with them ? You’ve been a nice bar- 
gain for me at any rate — killing the old woman and bringing all 
this about my ears ! ’ 

‘Do not be so unjust, Harry. I have never seen Mr Robert 
Fletcher since the day you and I were engaged. I have nothing 
to do with bringing this upon you.’ 

‘ Oh, it’s his jealousy, I suppose. I wish he’d got you, with all 
my heart. But I don’t believe a word of the story — it’s a trumped- 
up story to get money.’ 

‘ Robert Fletcher is not the man to do that, Harry.’ 

These words seemed absolutely to madden the infuriated young 
man ; he sprang forward with uplifted hands as if to strike Florence, 
but she flung herself back, and put out her arm to stay him. 

‘ Don’t !’ she said, looking him steadily in the face with her dark 
eyes, — ‘ don’t do that, Harry ; don’t strike me, it’s too unmanly. I 
will do what I can to help you, but do not forget I am a woman.’ 

For a moment Harry Blunt looked ashamed of himself. 

* It’s enough to drive a fellow mad,’ he muttered, sullenly casting 
down his eyes. 

‘Well, do not excite yourself, let us think what it is best to do 

K 


146 Out of Eden. 

and quietly talk it over/ said Florence. ‘ If I knew exactly what 
had happened, I would be better able to advise you.’ 

Then Harry told his story, mingled with strong language and 
passionate abuse, and as Florence listened she believed it to be 
true ; believed that she had flung away not only her happiness, 
but all the worldly advantages for which she had made so great a 
sacrifice. 

She grew very pale and faint. ‘ It is my punishment,’ she thought, 
but she tried to speak comforting words to Harry. 

‘ There may be nothing in it,’ she said ; ‘ at all events, I would 
take no notice until you receive some more formal information of 
what they intend to do. Robert Fletcher even may not care — ’ 

Then she paused, afraid to say more, and Harry Blunt flung 
himself on a seat, utterly overcome with the violence of his emotions. 

‘ If — if — this fellow comes in here,’ he said, savagely, between his 
teeth, ‘ he or I won’t live — ’ 

‘Hush!’ said Florence, and she went up to her husband and 
laid her hand on his trembling shoulders; ‘hush, Harry, let us 
try to make the best of it. If you like, I will try to see Robert 
and Mary Fletcher, but let us wait — let me get you some cham- 
pagne now, and try to lie down ; you will be ill if you excite your- 
self’ 

She felt sorry for him, prostrated and exhausted with his rage, 
and was kinder and gentler to him than she had ever been before. 
Harry drank the champagne she brought him, and then began to 
sob like a child, and Florence soothed him very much as if he 
were one. Harry, to a certain extent, was touched by her kindness, 
and he put his hand in hers. 

‘ I was cross with you, little woman,’ he said. 

‘ Yes, and you must not be cross any more,’ answered Florence, 
trying to smile, but with a heavy heart. Then she got him to lie 
down, and presently he fell asleep, and after looking at him for a 
minute or two, she left the room, going to the one she occupied 
with Bessie in her unmarried days. Here she found her sister 
looking very anxious. 

‘ Whatever is the matter, Flo } ’ asked Bessie eagerly. * I heard 
Harry making a most awful row in your room, and I dare not go 
in. Has anything happened ?’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Florence, and she sat down and related to the horror- 
stricken Bessie what had occurred. 

‘ I don’t believe it,’ cried Bessie ; ‘and yet do you know I’m cer- 
tain they have got hold of something downstairs. I went down not 
long ago and I saw Jenkins whispering to Appleby, and when they 
saw me they looked guilty and turned away, but Jenkins looked as 
if she were delighted. Who can have told them?’ 

‘Probably Appleby overheard what these gentlemen said to 
Harry,’ answered Florence, with some scorn. ‘We may make 
up our minds, Bessie,’ she added, bitterly, ‘we shall lick the 
dust !’ 

‘ How can you take it so quietly ?’ said Bessie, much overcome. 
‘If this be true, we have lost everything. Oh, Florence, and 1 


The Old Love, 14; 

persuaded you to take Harry ! ’ and Bessie flung her arms round 
her sister, and fell sobbing on her neck. 

‘It can’t be helped, Bessie,’ said Florence gently, suppressing 
the bitter despair of her own heart. ‘ We must try, as I told poor 
Harry, to make the best of it. I am sorry for him, for if this turns 
out as I fear it will, he has indeed lost everything he had.’ 

^ ‘ Yes,’ said Bessie, lifting her head and tear-stained face from her 
sister’s shoulder, ‘ for he is nothing himself ; it was only his title 
and money.’ 

‘ I married him for these, and they are taken away. I have 
but got what I deserved, Bessie.’ 

Upon this Bessie began sobbing louder than ever. She was really 
very fond of her sister, and had never been jealous of her superior 
beauty and attractions, and she had been so proud of Florence’s 
marriage, justly believing that her influence had helped to make 
it, therefore now her regret and disappointment were unbearably 
bitter. 

‘I would see Robert Fletcher,’ she said, presently; ‘he was so 
fond of you, Flo. I believe he would do anything you asked him ; 
perhaps you might persuade him to drop all this.’ 

Florence was silent ; a hundred times since her hurried marriage 
she had bitterly regretted it ; regretted it most bitterly when she 
heard Robert lay dangerously ill, and now it seemed like fate — 
Robert whom she had always liked — but what was the good of 
thinking of it. She started up and went down into the drawing- 
room, noticing or fancying that she saw peculiar looks exchanged 
among the servants. 

It was a miserable evening. Harry came down to dinner and 
sat glum and silent, and Bessie could not disguise her feelings. 
Florence bore it the best. 

‘ I was not very happy as Lady Blunt,’ she told Bessie, by way 
of consoling her ; ‘ so if my honours are taken from me, my happi- 
ness will not go with them — and, perhaps, adversity will improve 
poor Harry.’ 

During the next day, however, ‘ poor Harry’s ’ temper was simply 
unbearable. He had a violent headache with drinking too much, 
and he rated and found fault with everything under the sun. Flor- 
ence tried to put up with him, but Bessie lost all patience, and the 
moment she was alone with Florence began bemoaning that she 
had ever persuaded her sister to throw over ‘that dear fellow 
Robert Fletcher, or Robert Blunt, whichever he may be.’ 

‘ Oh, Bessie, your love goes with the title, I think,’ smiled Flor- 
ence sadly. 

‘ I wish we knew,’ said Bessie ; ‘ anything is better than this 
dreadful uncertainty.’ 

They knew very soon. Two days after Lady Blunt’s funeral, a 
formal letter arrived from Mr Howard, the lawyer, enclosing copies 
of the late Sir Henry Blunt’s will, and also copies of Lady Blunt’s 
will (made previous to her knowledge of Mr Chester’s forgeries, 
and leaving a large sum of ready money to her son), also were 
enclosed copies of the register of Sir Henry’s marriage with Miss 


148 Out of Eden, 

Mary Fletcher, and the dates of the birth of their son and daughcer. 
No reasonable person could doubt the existence of the marriage in 
the face of these facts, and in a few brief words Mr Howard in- 
formed Mr Henry Blunt that Sir Robert Blunt, having proved his 
right to the title, by his late father’s will came into possession of 
the whole of the estates. 

Harry Blunt’s rage when he read these documents — when he 
saw everything slipping away from him — was actually dreadful to 
witness. He raved, he swore, he abused the unhappy Florence, 
and cursed Bessie until she stopped her ears and ran out of the 
room. It was, indeed, a terrible scene. Appleby stood at the 
door frightened and pale, actually afraid that the maddened young 
man would strike his wife to the ground. But Florence was very 
brave and quiet. She had made up her mind from the first that 
this would come, and stood there looking at her husband thinking 
of those words of wisdom, ‘ If thou faint in the day of adversity, 
thy strength is small.’ But she was not disappointed in Harry ; 
she had known he was ‘ small ’ when she had put her slender hand 
in his and plighted her troth to him. Perhaps he was a little 
worse than she had expected — yes, he was worse — a lover and a 
husband play a different role^ but Harry had not even been a 
pleasant lover. She had married him, as she had told her sister, 
for his title and his money, and they had been taken away from 
her, and she bore her punishment very bravely. 

At last, after Harry had exhausted his throat and stock of abuse, 
she went up to him and said, very quietly, — 

‘If you like I will go down and see Mr Fletcher; perhaps I 
could have some influence on him?’ 

Upon this Harry started off again cursing and swearing, but 
finally grew eager for Florence to see Robert. 

‘Wait until it’s dusk,’ she said; ‘I would not like to be seen 
going so soon. Bessie will walk quietly down with me, and I will 
try what I can do.’ 

Harry with difficulty could be persuaded to allow her to wait. 
Oh, it was a miserable day I Florence, faint and trembling at the 
prospect of seeing her old lover, and being forced to ask him to 
give up what she knew was justly his, for her sake, who had given 
him such cruel pain. She wandered about the rooms looking so 
white, so miserable, and so excited, that Bessie followed her with 
a heart full of fear. 

‘ Don’t, my darling, don’t look like that ! ’ said Bessie, half cry- 
ing, putting her arm through hers. 

‘ I would rather die than do it ! ’ said Florence excitedly. 

‘ Well, then, don’t go,’ prayed Bessie. ‘ Don’t mind that stupid, 
ill-mannered fool. What matter what he says ?’ 

‘Yes, I must go,’ said Florence ; ‘ I have promised ; but I would 
rather die.’ 

And she did go, pale, nervous, and trembling, but with a certain 
bravery of spirit that made her able to overcome the miserable 
feelings of her sensitive heart. If Bessie had felt how dreadful 
it was to Florence to do this, Bessie would not have gone. But 


The Old Love, 149 

Bessie was one of those happy people who, if they want a thing, 
can ask for it without any particular pain. She could not under- 
stand the pale, set face, and the fainting, yet desperately brave 
heart, with which Florence set out to go down (morally) on her 
knees to her old lover. They went out in the gloaming, the two 
sisters, followed as they left the Hall in this unostentatious fashion, 
by curious comments. There was, as it were, a storm brewing in 
the air. Appleby had heard Harry Blunt raving and cursing ; 
he heard Robert Fletcher’s name ; he had heard of claims ; of the 
late Sir Henry’s supposed first marriage from the foolish, reckless 
lips of the enraged boy, who forgot everything in his passion. 
Then the scene after the funeral ; Bessie Chester’s face changed 
from pleased elation to ill-disguised gloom, and young Harry’s 
sullen, frowning brow. It was but natural that Appleby should 
think and hint. These young people were not favourites with the- 
servants ; Florence, indeed, would soon have won their hearts as 
Lady Blunt, with her sweet manner and winning ways, but Bessie 
was an eyesore. She was considered not to be in ‘her place’ 
when she came back to Weirmere Hall as the sister-in-law of 
young Sir Harry, and Bessie had had pleasure in queening it over 
those who had formerly not been civil to her, and had taken full 
advantage of her new position. 

So now there were nods and pleased little smiles at her expense. 

‘ We shall hear something soon,’ said Appleby, oracularly ; 
‘and then they began talking of Robert Fletcher’s mother; Mrs 
Walsh remembering the lovely girl who had fled from Weirmere 
with the late Sir Harry, and all the gossip on the subject. 

‘And he’s as fine and handsome a young man as ever trod Gods 
earth,’ said the old housekeeper, speaking of Robert Fletcher. 
‘Well, if it turns out that Sir Henry did right by his mother, and 
he comes to be master here, I for one shall think we have made a 
good exchange ; but it’s well, perhaps, our dear lady was spared 
to know this.’ 

‘ The question is, was she spared .?’ said Appleby. ‘ My opinion 
is, she got wind of it somehow, and went up to London to learn the 
truth ; and she learnt and it killed her.’ 

Appleby’s opinions naturally had great weight. He had means 
of hearing and knowing things which the other servants had not. 
He had been with his lady in her last moments, and might have 
heard some murmured word (he had not really done so), but he 
allowed this to be doubted, and gained thus reputation for prudence 
and knowledge. 

So when the sisters went out quietly together in the evening, 
after the scene that young Harry had made in the morning on 
receiving the lawyer’s letter, the servants were very curious to 
know their errand. It was a cold, dark evening— an unlikely day 
and hour for a walk by the damp lake side — and as Florence 
quitted the lighted hall, Appleby caught a glimpse of her white set 
face, and drew his own conclusions. In the meanwhile the sisters 
were silently walking on, Florence shivering visibly as she went. 
She felt physically ill, for she was delicate, and her sensitive organ- 


150 Out of Eden, 

isation responded only too readily to the pain and shame of hei 
mind. From time to time Bessie glanced at her anxiously and 
uneasily, but Florence walked on pale, brave, and determined, try- 
ing to think what she could say to Robert ; framing words which 
were almost sure to remain unspoken. 

At last they came in sight of the cottage, and Florence asked her 
sister to remain outside and wait for her. 

‘ I can speak better without you,’ she said. ‘ I only hope Mary 
won’t be there.’ 

Bessie parted with her sister at the little rustic gate which 
opened into Robert’s garden, and as Bessie went nervously on 
along the road, she could see by the bright firelight, through 
the parlour windows, Robert lying on a couch before the parlour 
fire. 

Florence also saw Robert as she tremblingly went up the garden 
walk, and rang with a shaking hand at the bell beneath the rustic 
porch. Robert lifted his head when he heard the bell, and then 
laid it somewhat wearily down again. He thought it was Mary 
returning, for she had been out nearly an hour. A moment later, 
however, the maid rapped at the parlour door, and opened it the 
next. 

. ‘ Please, sir,’ she said, in country fashion, ‘a lady’s called to see 
you — Lady BlunL 

When Robert heard that name he started to his feet. For an 
instant he thought of the dead woman lying in her grave, the 
familiar Lady Blunt, sombre and erect ; then he recognised Florence 
as she came forward — Florence, pale, graceful, and dark-eyed — the 
woman he had loved ! 

He held out his hand in silence, too nervous and agitated to 
speak. Florence, nervous and agitated also, looked up into his 
face and saw how greatly he was changed. He was haggard and 
hollow-cheeked, his once stalwart form shrunk and wasted. 

‘ Are you better t ’ she said, tremulously. 

‘Yes, almost well,’ he answered, in his pleasant-toned voice, 
and with something like the old smile stealing over his altered face. 

‘You were very ill,’ said Florence. 

‘Yes,’ he said, and then these two stood there and looked again 
i» each other’s faces, both thinking of the past. 

‘ I — I came to see you,’ began Florence nervously the next 
minute, and dropping his hand as she spoke ; ‘ Harry sent me to 
see you about these claims.’ 

‘Oh ! Harry sent you to see me ?’ said Robert, and a hard and 
bitter feeling crept into his heart. 

‘ Yes ; he got a letter this morning,’ went on Florence quickly, 
‘a letter from Mr Howard,-- but I suppose you know ?’ 

‘ Yes, I know,’ answered Robert, briefly and coldly enough. 

‘ He thought I had better see you,’ continued Florence. ‘ He 
thought, at least I thought, some arrangement might be made.’ 

‘ Of course some arrangement can be made ; but I think we 
had better leave this to the lawyers.’ 

‘Then you mean to— to try to establish your claim?’ 


The Old Love* 1 5 1 

‘ I do not need to try/ said Robert, with some pride. ‘ My 
claim to my father’s name and property is quite plain. No lawyer 
will advise Harry to dispute it, I think ; I always knew I was Sir 
Robert Blunt.’ 

‘And yet — and yet you allowed me to—’ And suddenly a sob 
broke Florence’s voice. 

^ ‘ I allowed you to have your choice,’ said Robert, with a curling 
lip. ‘ I did not want to bribe you for your love.’ 

‘No,’ and Florence put her hand over her face, ‘you thought 
little of it, I think, when — when you let me do what I did.’ 

‘ But not without warning, Florence ; but we had best not speak 
of these things — we had best try to forget them ; and as for any 
arrangement with Harry, when the time comes you may be sure of 
one thing, and you may tell him this, I shall not forget he was 
brought up as the heir. My father was so far unjust to him ; to 
spare poor Lady Blunt pain he forgot the disappointment he must 
cause Harry.’ 

‘ He will go mad, I think,’ said Florence, with a sort of broken 
'sob, and she sat down as if too tired to stand ; ‘ he, he is like a 
madman now, Robert ; I am afraid of him.’ 

I am sorry for this,’ said Robert, and he went a step nearer to 
the weeping woman. ‘ I am sorry, Florence — ’ 

‘ I believe he will kill me,’ said Florence, still in that tear-broken 
voice. She was half-acting, yet her heart was so sad and so miser- 
able it all seemed only too real and too true to her. But she had 
gone there to wring a promise from Robert, and she saw the man’s 
softening mood. 

‘ He — he would have struck me,’ she sobbed. 

‘Struck you !’ repeated Robert sternly. ‘Is he brute enough 
for that 1 ’ 

‘ All this has nearly made him mad — that is it — he did not know 
what he was doing, I think,’ still half-sobbed Florence. ‘ You see 
he had no suspicion, and after poor Lady Blunt’s funeral the 
lawyer told him — and since then — oh, I cannot tell you all I have 
gone through ! ’ 

‘ Hush ! do not cry,’ said Robert, and he put his hand on her 
shoulder ; ‘ all I can spare you, Florence, I will spare you, though 
you did not spare me — ’ 

‘ No,’ wept Florence ; ‘ I have deserved it all ; I made myself do 
what I did against— my heart. I— I— never cared for Harry ; 
how could I when — ’ 

‘ You never cared for me, at any rate,’ said Robert, with some 
roughness and bitterness, and he took his hand from her shoulder. 
‘ You mustn’t come and tell me this now, Florence, now, when—’ 

‘ It is too late ! ’ said Florence, and she looked up at her old 
lover. 

‘ And not only that,’ said Robert, thinking very bitterly. 

‘ I know,’ said Florence, swiftly guessing his thoughts, ‘ you 
suspect my motives ; it’s only natural you should. I can’t expect 
you to believe me ; sometimes I can’t believe myself. It’s the 
vile teaching of the world, Robert, that spoils women. They are 


152 Out of Eden. 

taught that money and rank are more than everything ; they are 
taught to throw everything else aside.’ 

‘As I suppose you did?’ said Robert, with a little scoffing laugh.. 

His tone and that little laugh stabbed Florence like a sword. 
She started to her feet, pale and trembling. 

‘ You may sneer,’ she said, ‘ it is gentlemanly of you to sneer. ^ I 
deserve it, no doubt, but I did not think you would have done it ! 

I believed in you more than that, Robert Fletcher ! I believed you 
loved me once — ’ 

‘ I once did, Florence,’ said Robert slowly, looking at her excited 
face with involuntary admiration ; ‘ I loved you as deeply and truly 
as a man can love a woman — ay, and as purely too ! And what 
was my reward ? My love flung aside — for what ? A title as you 
thought, and an ill-mannered boy ! I don’t want to be hard on 
you, little woman. You have chosen your lot, and I would rather 
help you to bear it, than make it rougher to you, but you can under- 
stand my being a little bitter, can’t you ? If I sneered you must 
forgive me ; only don’t pretend. You never liked me, Florence ; 
if you had liked me you would not have minded what you call the 
“ vile teaching of the world.”’ 

Pride kept her silent ; yet she knew as she stood there facing 
him that she had loved him, and that she loved him now. 

‘ I won’t say anything,’ she said, after a moment’s pause, during 
which her dark eyes met his steadily ; ‘ you would not believe me 
if I did, so I won’t waste my breath. I will but speak the hard 
truth to you — Harry sent me down to see you to ask you not to dis- 
pute the title he naturally supposed he was born to, about the 
money and the land — ’ 

‘ Florence,’ interrupted Robert, quietly but firmly, ‘ do you think 
I can forget my mother’s embittered life, my sister’s blighted name ? 
For years Mary suffered, and I knew it all the while ; but a solemn 
promise bound me to my dead father, and I was forced to stand by 
and see her wince. And now, can Harry or you expect me to give 
up my rights ? It was unmanly of him to send you here ; unmanly 
to expose you to the pain and annoyance of talking on this subject 
to me.’ 

‘ I have nothing more to say, then,’ said Florence, and she put 
out her hand. ‘ Good-bye, Robert ; I will tell him what you have 
said.’ 

‘And did you expect me to say anything else?’ asked Robert, 
holding her hand, and speaking with strange gentleness. He was 
pitying her with all his heart. He understood what she had suffered 
in coming to him ; he understood, perhaps, that she had been 
forced to come. 

‘I — I — did not know what you might say,’ faltered Florence, 
and then suddenly a burst of hysterical emotion swept over her, 
and for a moment or two she could not speak for choking sobs. 

‘ Please do not distress me thus,’ said Robert earnestly. 

‘You must forgive me coming,’ wept Florence; ‘I — 1 — was so 
miserable — I am so miserable. But it does not matter ; I have 
deserved it all, and — and — I only wish now that I were dead,’ 


The Old Love. T53 

* You make me very unhappy by speaking thus/ said Robert. 
But at this moment the garden gate outside gave a clink, and 
looking quickly round, Robert saw Mary advancing up the 
garden. 

‘ Here is Mary,’ he said. ‘ Perhaps I had better go and meet 
her, Florence.’ 

But Mary gave him no time ; almost as the words passed his 
' lips she turned the handle of the parlour door and entered the 
room, looking as she did so with the utmost astonishment and 
anger at Florence. 

‘ You here ! ’ she said. 

‘ Yes,’ said Robert, trying to hide Florence’s tear-stained face by 
standing between her and the fire light. ‘ Florence has called to 
see me. I am glad now to see my friends.’ 

Mary made no reply. She never offered to shake Florence’s 
hand or to exchange ordinary greetings with her. She guessed in 
a moment, indeed, what Florence had come for, and great scorn 
and indignation was in her heart. 

‘ I do not understand your coming here,’ she said at length, look- 
ing at Florence. 

‘ I — I — came with a message from Harry,’ said Florence, trying 
to speak quietly, and hide her emotion. 

‘I thought as much,’ said Mary passionately. ‘You came, I 
suppose, to try to induce Robert — ’ 

‘Mary,’ interrupted Robert, ‘please do not talk in that tone. 
Florence came to see me on a matter of business — business, I think, 
that Mr Harry had better have transacted himself,’ he added, smil- 
ing. ‘ But I suppose, now that he has a wife — ’ 

But his well-meant effort of pleasantry did not deceive Mary. 
She grew pale, she bit her lips, her breath came short. 

‘ If I thought,’ she began, in trembling accents, ‘ that — that 
you could be persuaded to forget our mother and her wrongs, 
Robert — ’ 

‘ There is no question of such a thing,’ said Robert quickly. ‘ Do 
not distress Florence, Mary ; I assure you that you have no reason 
to be afraid.’ 

‘ I think I will go now,’ said Florence, fastening her cloak with 
her trembling hands, and putting down her veil. ‘ Good-bye,’ she 
said, and she put her hand for a moment in Robert’s, and then she 
turned to Mary. ‘You need not be afraid of me,’ she continued, 
with a half-smile, and a little shake of her head ; ‘ Harry sent me 
to ask Robert something, but he has sternly refused.’ 

‘ Harry ought to look after his own business, and not send you,’ 
said Robert. ‘ Are you going ? I will see you to the door, though 
I suppose Mary will not allow me, after all her nursing, to open the 
garden gate for you.’ 

‘ I can do that,’ said Mary, and she walked past Robert and 
Florence, and quitted the room for the purpose of opening the 
house door and the garden gate, and for a moment Florence and 
Robert were again alone. 

‘ Good-bye,’ he said, and he once more took her hand, adding, 


154 Out of Eden, 

in a low but emphatic tone, ‘ and remember you can rely upon m^ 
always, rely upon me as your friend/ 


CHAPTERXXIV. , 

THEHUSBAND. ^ 

The night air blew on Florence’s face as she went out, and its chill 
seemed to reach her very heart. Mary opened the garden gate 
for her, but she did not put out her hand either in token of peace 
or amity. They parted without a word, and pale and trembling 
Florence commenced to walk along the path by the lake side, where 
she was quickly overtaken by Bessie, who had been anxiously 
watching for her. 

‘Well,’ said Bessie eagerly, putting her arm through her sister’s, 
‘what did he say ?’ J 

But Florence, for a moment, was too much overcome to answer. 
She laid her head on her sister’s shoulder, and began crying bitterly. 

‘ Oh ! what I have suffered ! what I have suffered ! ’ 

‘Never mind, dear; it is all over now. Did he promise any- 
thing?’ said Bessie, trying to console her sister, but too anxious to 
control her own curiosity. 

‘ Nothing,’ said Florence, lifting up her head. ‘ I degraded my- 
self in vain. He always knew he was Sir Robert Blunt, and yet — 
and yet he allowed me to marry Harry ?’ 

‘ It was disgusting of him, then, that’s all I can say,’ said Bessie ; 

‘ utterly mean of him, I call it. So he intends to take the title, I 
suppose, and everything ? ’ 

‘ He intends to take the title, and he said no lawyer, in the face 
of the evidence, would advise Harry to dispute it. Oh, Bessie, I’m 
afraid to go home ! ’ And Florence wrung her hands. ‘ I’m afraid 
to tell Harry — afraid to face the dreadful scene — ’ 

Bessie also was afraid, and the two sisters stood loitering on the 
damp path, trying to gain courage to encounter what they both 
very well knew lay before them. 

‘ I think he might have shown a little more consideration for 
you,’ said Bessie presently, speaking of Robert, ‘ after all his fine 
professions of love indeed. But it’s just like a man, you wounded 
his vanity, and he’s glad to be revenged on you/ 

‘ No, you are unjust to him. He did not care for love like mine, 
— love he could have bought, as he very plainly hinted, by telling 
me his true position. Oh, I must have been mad, Bessie ! ’ con- 
tinued Florence excitedly ; ‘ mad, utterly mad ! When I look at 
him, so noble, so handsome, how could I — how could I marry 
Harry?’ 

‘Not very noble, I think,’ answered Bessie pettishly; ‘if he’d 
been so wonderfully noble, and so wonderfully in love with you, he 
would not have thought of himself now, but of you. He’s taking 
everything from you,— title, money, position, — all to gratify his own 
pride. I don’t call that love.’ 


The Husband, 155 

* I am not, and never was, worthy of his love. When I lookback 
and think what he said that night he asked me, when I remember 
all his words, and the other’s, and I knowing what Harry was — ’ 

‘ You did not know, Florence !’ 

‘ Yes, yes, I did. What is the good of deceiving ourselves now.? 
I shut my eyes, wilfully blinded myself, for the sake of what I 
thought poor Harry had to give.’ 

‘ It’s a miserable business,’ said Bessie, beginning to cry. ‘ I am 
sure I do not know what we shall do ; for I suppose Robert 
Fletcher, or Sir Robert, or whatever he is, will take everything.’ 

‘ Do not be afraid,’ answered Florence, in a low tone ; ‘he was 
always generous ; he will take his father’s name and place ; but as 
for money, Harry need not be afraid.’ 

‘ Well, if you think that ; after all, money is the great thing,’ said 
Bessie, drying her eyes. 

‘ I am sure — ’ said Florence, and then she suddenly clutched her 
sister’s arm. ‘ Here is Harry,’ she whispered ; and as she spoke 
Harry Blunt appeared before them in the darkness, and advanced 
forward quickly to meet them. 

‘ Well, have you seen that fellow .? ’ he asked, eagerly ; ‘ and what 
did he say ?’ 

‘ 1 have seen him,’ said Florence, in a faint voice. 

‘What did he say then.? Why can’t you speak?* said Harry 
roughly. 

‘He said, Harry, what Mr Howard said, — he is your father’s 
eldest son. I think there can be no doubt,’ answered Florence, with 
a sort of desperate courage, and as she spoke the brutal young man 
seized her by the shoulder. 

‘What! are you going to take his part, Flo?’ shouted Harry, 
shaking her in his rage ; but with a moan Florence slipped from 
his grasp half-fainting on the ground. 

‘ I cannot bear anything more,’ she murmured ; ‘ I cannot, I can- 
not ! ’ 

‘ How dare you treat her as you do I’ cried Bessie furiously, and 
she knelt down and lifted up Florence’s drooping head. ‘ Don’t 
mind him, my darling, don’t ; he’s not worth distressing yourself 
about. Lean upon me, Florence. Whatever happens, you will 
always have me ! ’ 

‘ What infernal folly 1 What’s the good of shamming ! I didn’t 
touch you, you know that very well. Get up, and tell me what the 
fellow said,’ said Harry Blunt, furious, and perhaps rather ashamed 
of his own brutality. But Florence had no strength to rise. She 
lay white, trembling, and prostrate, and at last Harry himself grew 
alarmed, and tried to lift her up. 

‘ Come, don’t be silly,’ he said. But Florence was utterly worn 
out with what she had gone through, and with the greatest difficulty 
Bessie and he contrived to drag her between them to the Hall, 
Bessie sending one of the servants at once for Dr Humphrey when 
they arrived there, with Florence looking almost as if she were 
dying. 

They carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed, and Harry ran 


156 Out of Eden. 

about frightened and pale, calling for brandy, and in his stupid, 
clumsy way, trying to be kind to her. 

‘ What made her fall ? ’ he said to Bessie, wishing to ignore his 
shake ; but Bessie was too angry with him to answer, and too 
anxious about Florence to think of anything else. She stood hold- 
ing Florence’s cold hand until the doctor came, who felt sincere 
sympathy when he saw the poor girl he had known so long lying 
there apparently utterly broken down. 

He turned Harry out of the room, and then gently took hold of 
Florence’s hand. 

‘You have been distressing yourself about something,’ he said, 
kindly. ‘ Come, Florence, haven’t you a word for your old friend ?’ 

Florence looked at him pathetically with her dark eyes, but did 
not speak, and presently heavy tears began to roll slowly down her 
cheeks. 

‘ What is the matter, Florence ? ’ said Arthur Humphrey. 

‘That precious husband of hers,’ said Bessie indignantly, ‘forced 
her to go down to see Robert Fletcher about — well, I suppose you 
know — about the title and all that, and it’s more than poor Flor- 
ence could bear.’ 

‘ He should not have done it,’ answered Arthur Humphrey, 
frowning. Harry Blunt was, indeed, one of Dr Arthur’s pet aver- 
sions. He had never exerted himself to be particularly civil to 
him, even in his poor mother’s time, and after the degrading ex- 
hibition of uncontrolled temper that Harry had made after Lady 
Blunt’s funeral. Dr Arthur had regarded him with supreme contempt 
So, after giving Bessie some medical advice about her sister, he 
beckoned to her to follow him out of the room, and when they got 
into the corridor outside he spoke to her very seriously. 

‘ I want to speak to you, Bessie,’ he said, ‘ about Florence ; she 
is in an extremely prostrate condition, and on no account what- 
ever must you allow Harry Blunt to go into her room, or make any 
more scenes in her presence. I’ll speak to him before I leave ; but 
you must lock the door — do anything rather than let Florence see 
him. She is nervous and excitable, and he forced her, I suppose, 
to see Robert Fletcher — I beg his pardon. Sir Robert Blunt ; but 
there must be no more of this. We must not forget her illness 
after your poor father’s death.’ 

‘ He is horrid ! said Bessie angrily, and half-crying. ‘ Poor Flor- 
ence, she made a miserable mistake ! ’ 

Dr Arthur shrugged his shoulders. He knew very well Bessie 
had urged her sister to marry Harry Blunt ; but he knew also it was 
of no use to remind her of this fact. 

‘ Well, take care of her,’ he said, ‘ and I will speak to her lord 
and master ; ’ and he nodded to Bessie and left her, and went 
downstairs to seek Harry Blunt, who was standing by the side- 
board in the dining-room, drinking brandy and soda-water, but who 
looked rather frightened when he saw the doctor’s grave face. 

‘ How is she ? ’ he asked. ‘ She had a fall, you know ; she slipped 
her foot as she was coming home along the lake side, but, luckily, 
I was there.’ 


The Husband, I57 

‘ She is very prostrate, and must be kept perfectly quiet,* answered 
Dr Arthur. ‘ I have given Bessie orders that no one has to go 
into her room until I see her in the morning ; she must not be 
disturbed.’ 

‘ I am sure I don’t want to disturb her,’ growled young Harry. 

‘ She’s delicate, and can’t stand very much,’ said the doctor. 
‘ Don’t see her again this evening, please, for I have given her a 
soothing draught, and it would be dangerous if she did not sleep.’ 

‘All right,’ said Harry. ‘ I say,’ he added, ‘this is a nice sell 
for me, this setting up of my father’s supposed marriage with his 
mistress. What does the fellow himself say ? Have you seen him t ’ 

‘Yes, I have seen him,’ answered Arthur Humphrey coldly ; ‘ but 
I advise you to go to the lawyers about it. Good evening.* And 
after declining all Harry’s offers of hospitality. Dr Arthur went away. 

But before the night was past he went down to the cottage to see 
Robert. He found him lying on a couch reading the newspaper, 
but with a flush on his hollow cheeks, and a disturbed and excited 
look in his eyes. Mary was sitting beside the table reading, or 
pretending to read, also, and she rose nervously as Dr Arthur en- 
tered, and after a few common-place words left the room. She 
had scarcely seen him since she had known she was Mary Blunt — 
known she need no longer blush at her mother’s name. 

Scarcely was Mary gone when Dr Arthur commenced the sub- 
ject which had brought him there. 

‘ So you had a visitor this afternoon ?* he said, looking somewhat 
curiously with his dark, penetrating eyes at his patient lying on the 
couch. 

‘ Yes. How did you know ? * answered Robert, jerking his news- 
paper. 

‘ Because she took so ill on her road home they had to send for 
me in hot haste when they got her there,* said Dr Arthur, still 
looking at Robert. 

‘ So ill I ’ repeated Robert, starting up and going hastily to the 
fireplace. ‘What is the matter, Humphrey?* 

‘ A brutal husband, I should think,’ answered Dr Arthur, with a 
shrug. ‘That young cub forced her to come down to you. Bessie 
told me ; and it’s nearly killed the poor, sensitive girl.’ 

‘ Good heavens ! ’ cried Robert, much agitated ; the brute, the 
fool, to send her down on such an errand. He ought to be utterly 
ashamed of himself.* 

‘ He isn’t,’ said Dr Arthur. 

‘ Something must be done,* continued Robert, beginning to pace 
the room. ‘I say, Humphrey, why don’t you speak to him? Get 
him up to London. Anywhere out of her way. Poor, poor girl ! ’ 

‘ My dear fellow, I rarely speak about things that don’t concern 
me, but I came down to-night especially to do so. In fact, I felt 
sorry for this poor broken-hearted girl, for I believe she is utterly 
miserable with that cub, and I think some arrangement about 
money ought to be made as soon as possible. Of course, I don’t 
know the whole story, but I fancy he has behaved like a madnian 
to her ever since he knew his heirdom was passing away from him. 


158 0 }it of Eden. 

Bessie told me he forced her to come to you ; I suppose to beg you 
to give up your claims ?’ 

Robert nodded his head. 

‘ I guessed as much,’ continued Arthur Humphrey ; ‘ and I, of 
course, guess the rest. You naturally declined his modest request, 
and he retaliated on his unfortunate young wife. He says she 
slipped her foot — query.’ 

‘ You don’t think— said Robert, turning pale and setting his 
teeth hard — ‘you don’t think hq, struck her 

‘ I would not like to commit myself with any decided opinion,’ 
answered Dr Arthur, with a grim smile, ‘but there she is, prostrate, 
shattered ; in fact, we must get the young fellow away. I*came to 
suggest to you that I might propose to him to-morrow to consult 
Larkins, and take Larkins up to London with him to consult 
the big guns on the case there. What do you think ’ 

‘ Certainly the very best thing ; Larkins is a sharp fellow ; but, 
Humphrey, you cannot think, surely you cannot think, that this 
madman actually hurt poor, poor Florence ? ^ And Robert’s voice 
trembled. 

‘ I think he is a selfish young fool, without the smallest self- 
control. However, she married him, and must take the conse- 
quences ! but he’s best out of her way till his first disappointment 
is over, so I’ll advise him to go to London.’ 

‘ But is she safe now — safe even to-night ?’ 

‘ I left strict orders with Bessie, that no one was to see her, and 
I spoke to Master Harry himself. Oh, he’s got a fright ; he’ll not 
make any more rows to-night.’ 

‘ And Humphrey,’ said Robert, trying to hide his agitation, ‘ tell 
him, of course, as regards money there need be no dispute ; he 
was brought up supposing himself to be the heir, and he shall have 
a handsome income.’ 

‘ I would not commit yourself until the thing is settled ; howe'ver, 
that’s your affair. I must say good-night now — ’ 

‘ Good-night, and will you let me know to-morrow — ’ 

‘ How Florence is?’ said Dr Arthur, as Robert hesitated. ‘Yes, 
ril look in and tell you. Good-bye ; ^take care of yourself.’ 

And a minute later Dr Arthur was gone, leaving Robert alone 
with his anxious and disturbing thoughts. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

LARKINS. 

Dr Arthur was as good as his word, and the next morning asked 
to see Harry Blunt after he had paid his medical visit to Florence. 
Hariy looked shaken and desponding. He had been drinking 
heavily the night before, and he had been re-reading Mr Howard’s 
letter, and the direct evidence it contained, and everything seemed 
very dark to him. He looked up and nodded as Dr Arthur en- 


Larkins. 


159- 

tered the room where he was, but that was all ; he was in one of 
those moods when ordinary civility is scarcely attended to. 

‘ Good-morning,’ said Dr Arthur ; ‘ your wife is better this 
morning.’ 

‘ Don’t believe there was ever much the matter with her,’ said 
Harry ; ‘ she’s upset, and no wonder, with this confounded affair.’ 

‘Why don’t you go to Larkins, at Oniston — he’s a sharp fellow — 
and consult him about the case?’ said Dr Arthur. ‘ If I were you, 

I would do this, and take Larkins up to London with you, and see 
some of the big men there, and get your mind at rest one way or 
the other.’ 

‘ Humph ! ’ growled Harry. 

‘ It’s miserable work this, you know ; miserable for yourself, and 
miserable for your wife,’ continued Dr Arthur. 

‘ It can’t be to her what it is to me, at any rate,’ said Harry 
Blunt sullenly. 

‘No, but she feels it very much for your sake. In fact, I advise 
you to see Larkins to-day.’ 

‘ Something must be done, anyhow,’ said Harry. ‘ Of all the 
confounded unjust actions I ever knew, if there’s any truth in 
the story of my father’s first marriage, it beats them ! How a 
fellow could behave in such a brutal fashion, I can’t think. Poor 
mother hadn’t an idea of such a thing, I suppose ?’ 

‘ Not until two days before her sudden death. She came then 
on some of the first Lady Blunt’s letters — I mean Robert Fletcher’s 
mother — and these letters were all addressed to your father, signed 
his affectionate wife. She took them up to Mr Howard, and he 
told her the truth, and the shock killed her.’ 

‘And you really think — ’ said Harry, and he turned very pale. 

‘ I really think your father married Miss Fletcher, and that you 
have an elder brother ; but, if I were you, I would not sit down and 
cry about it. Robert will be generous about money ; you are his 
heir, remember, at any rate, for he may never marry, and I know, 
from what he said, you will have a handsome income.’ 

‘ I ought, after all the money my mother had,’ said Harry. 

‘ Yes, of course, he’ll consider that ; but I would consult Larkins, 
and take him up to town with you.’ 

Harry took this advice. Larkins was a country attorney, of con- 
siderable practice, residing at Oniston, and after Dr Arthur left 
the Hall, Harry rode to Oniston, and saw Mr Larkins. 

Larkins received him with effusion. Larkins had heard rumours 
of a disputed succession to the great estates belonging to the late 
Lady Blunt, and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction when ‘ Sir 
Harry,’ as he was commonly called, rode up to his door. 

He rubbed his hands again when ‘ Sir Harry ’ entered the office, 
and he smiled and rose, beaming, from his desk. He was a little 
man, with dusty-brown hair, and a dusty-brown withered skin. 
He had one bright roguish brown eye, surrounded by wrinkles, and 
the other eye had a glassy wickedness of its own, truly indescribable. 
It was of glass, and had a fixed stare which never left your face 
when it was in ; but this was not always, as it was an uncom- 


i6o Out of Eden, 

fortable eye, and its owner was easier when it Avas out. But on 
important occasions the glass eye of Larkins was always present. 
It happened on the morning when Harry Blunt rode to his door to 
be a magistrates’ meeting at Oniston, in the afternoon, so the cold, 
glassy, inscrutable eye was in its place. 

‘ Glad to see you, Sir Harry,’ said Mr Larkins ; ‘ cold morning, 
but seasonable.’ 

‘ I have called,’ said Harry, in his thick voice, ‘ on some busi- 
ness — confoundedly disagreeable business. It seems, you would 
scarcely think it, Mr Larkins, that there is a new claimant for my 
mother’s property.’ 

‘ I have heard rumours. Sir Harry, I won’t deny. I have heard 
rumours,’ said Mr Larkins, his brown eye shifting and smiling, his 
glass eye stern and still. You allude, pf course, to the claims of 
the gentleman we have long known and'Fsteemed as Mr Fletcher. 
Ha ! ha ! ha !’ 

‘ It’s no laughing matter,’ growled Harry. 

‘ It is not, indeed, sir ; it’s a serious matter, most serious. But 
in life. Sir Harry, “laugh where we must, be candid where we 
can.” And now let us be candid — we can be candid here — you 
have come to consult me — then let me hear the whole case, sir.’ 
And Larkins shut his brown eye expectantly, but his glass eye kept 
on its unmoved stare. 

Then Harry stumbling, and with many strong expressions, told 
how Mr Howard had come to his mother’s funeral, and brought a 
‘ strange parson ’ with him unasked, and how this ‘ parson fellow ’ 
declared he had married Harry’s father on such a date to Miss 
Mary Fletcher. 

Here Larkins made a note, and for this purpose opened his 
brown eye. 

Harry went on to state that he didn’t believe it ; that he thought 
it was a vile invention (strong expression here) to extort money ; 
every one knew this (strong expression) fellow was his father’s 
illegitimate son ; this fellow had wanted to marry his (Harry’s) 
wife, and he had started this (strong expression) scheme for the 
purpose of trying to injure Harry, because he was jealous, because 
he was a brute, because he was a scoundrel. 

‘ Gently, gently, Sir Harry,’ said Larkins, and the brown eye 
gave an admonitory look, the glass eye sternly still. 

Harry grew excited ; he swore he would die first before he would 
give up his just rights. 

‘Just rights?’ repeated Larkins, in a tone of inquiry. 

‘Was he not his father’s son, and his mother’s son?’ shouted 
Harry. 

‘Certainly; no doubt,’ said Larkins; ‘Sir Henry Blunt’s son, 
and Lady Blunt’s son — late Miss Dorothy Sykes, a lady of property, 
a highly-respectable lady.’ 

Then was (strong expression) the brat of a (strong expression) to 
be allowed to step into his (Harry’s) shoes ? He would die first. 

‘ My dear sir,’ said Larkins mildly, ‘ if it is so, your dying wiU 
not prevent it.’ 


Larkins. l6i 

* Then what’s to be done?’ roared Harry. 

‘Take counsel, the best in England,’ replied Larkins oracularly. 
‘ Don’t spare money,’ he continued, winking his brown eye ; ‘ let 
us go to the big guns with a big fee. Take your banking-book with 
you, Sir Harry, and don’t spare your cheques.’ And again Larkins 
laughed, to the secret indignation of the angry young man. 

But he agreed to do as Larkins bade him, and he asked Larkins 
to go up to town with him, which offer Larkins accepted with 
alacrity. 

Larkins knew well enough when Harry produced with his shaking 
hands Mr Howard’s letter, and the copy of the register of the 
rnarriage of Robert’s father and mother, and the date of Robert’s 
birth, that poor Harry had not a leg to stand on, or a very shaky 
one at best. But it did not suit Larkins’s little plans to tell Harry 
this in plain language. Larkins was a gay man ; he liked a trip to 
town, ‘ to shake off the green mould,’ he called it, and he liked his 
clients to pay for his trips, and he was very pleased to be called in 
on such an important case as this. 

So he gave Harry some hope to live on, though he admitted that 
the ‘other side’ had ‘something to go on.’ But still Harry left 
Larkins’s offices comforted. He would fight the (strong language) 
to the last, he told himself, as he rode home, and gave orders for 
his immediate departure for town. 

He sent for Bessie, and told her he was going to meet Larkins, 
and catch the afternoon train up to London, and she might tell 
Florence so. Bessie went upstairs and told Florence, and Florence 
asked to see him before he went. Presently he entered her room, 
and was a little startled to see how ill Florence looked. 

‘ Well, Flo,’ he said, ‘ I’ve seen Larkins, and he and I are off to 
town, and we’ll show Mr Robert Fletcher we are not going to 
throw up the sponge quite so easily.’ 

‘ I hope — ’ faltered Florence, in her faint voice. 

‘ There ’ (and he kissed her), ‘ get well like a good girl, and I’ll 
let you know how we get on ; we may be away a week or so.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Florence. Then she whispered, ‘Forgive me,’ and 
held out her hand to him, which Harry graciously took. Could he 
have seen into her heart! She meant, ‘Forgive me for having 
married you without love ; for giving you no love.’ As Harry 
could not see into her heart, as his nature was too dense to under- 
stand such self-reproach, he supposed she wished to be forgiven 
for taking ill the night before when he had sent her down to see 
Robert. 

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘only don’t go and make anymore ridiculous 
scenes, and have that prig Humphrey coming here and giving his 
advice.’ 

Florence smiled feebly as Harry said this. She had been lying 
there thinking how she had wronged Harry ; she had married him 
for his position and his fortune, and she had felt that as she had 
done this, that now when these were passing away from him, that 
she at least ought to cling to him. • But Harry Blunt could not 
appreciate the wrestlings of a generous though erring soul. No 

L 


62 


Out of Eden, 

‘ faculty divine ’ stirred his dull being. He was of ‘ the earth 
earthy ; ’ so low that he could never rise. 

It was a relief when he went away. Happy is the woman to 
whom the sound of her husband’s footsteps has ‘ music in’t ; ’ but 
to how many it is the departing footstep and not the returning one ! 
Florence heard Harry go downstairs with a sense of infinite relief; 
a relief apparently experienced by the whole household. The air 
felt lighter somehow when the insolent, passionate boy was not 
there to breathe it. 

Harry also was glad to leave the Hall. He met Larkins at the 
station ; Larkins got up in his best, and with his glass eye brighter 
than ever in its cold glassiness ; he had, indeed, given it an extra 
rub previous to its proposed visit to town. Larkins was in high 
spirits, and he lowered himself to Harry Blunt’s level without any 
great difficulty. He told stories that Harry could enjoy, and did 
not pause to pick his words. 

They went to a West-end Hotel, for Larkins meant ‘ to do the 
thing well.’ ‘ We must show them we have confidence,’ he told 
Harry, and Harry was quite willing to pay. So they made ‘ a 
night of it,’ in Larkins’s parlance. They had a good dinner, went 
to one or two theatres, and admired the town by midnight. But 
Larkins was up betimes in the morning, and off to see his ‘ big 
gun,’ namely, the eminent counsel he proposed to consult on 
Harry’s case. The eminent counsel was engaged, but could see 
Mr Larkins on the following day, so Larkins and Harry had 
another ‘ day of it,’ and Larkins began to think the country dull, 
that a man of spirit was wasted there, and seriously contemplated 
a change of residence. 

But the next morning brought soberer reflections. For one 
thing, Larkins had a violent headache, and for another, the 
eminent counsel kept him waiting an hour before he was ushered 
into the great man’s presence, and when he was, the great man 
had a cool, satirical stare, that even Larkins’s glass eye seemed 
to feel. 

However, Larkins stated his case clearly enough, and the eminent 
counsel reserved his opinion until he had time to examine the 
documents, etc., with which Larkins had gone armed. He hurried 
Larkins out very speedily, and Larkins returned to the hotel 
thinking that perhaps an ‘ assured position in the country, where 
every one knew and respected you,’ was better than ‘to dance 
attendance on their lordships’ pleasures.’ 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

MRS HARRY BLUNT, 

While Harry Blunt and Larkins were making the most of their 
time in London, down by placid Weirmere the still days stole to 
the still nights. Florence had risen from her sick-bed, and many 


Mrs Harry Blunt 163 

an hour stood gazing from the windows at the cottage in the blue 
hazy distance, the fortunes of whose inhabitants had become so 
strongly mixed with those of the Hall. At the cottage Robert was 
slowly regaining his strength, and each day that Dr Arthur Hum- 
phrey called the doctor knew by a certain wistful expression on his 
patient’s face that Robert wished to hear how Florence was. The 
doctor was a grave, somewhat satirical man, but perhaps some 
feelings in his own heart made him pitiful to Robert, for he always 
had a word or two to say on this subject. 

‘ That little woman at the Hall is getting brighter again,’ he said, 
one morning. 

‘ I am glad of that,’ replied Robert. 

* I asked her after her cub this morning,’ continued the doctoi, 
‘ and it seems Larkins and he are having quite a lively time of it. 

Larkins has seen ’ (and Dr Arthur named the eminent counsel 

Larkins had consulted on the case), ‘ and his opinion is not favour- 
able.’ And Dr Arthur laughed. 

‘ Not favourable to Harry, you mean ?’ said Robert quickly. 

‘ Precisely,’ and the doctor nodded ; ‘ but Larkins is not dis- 
mayed ; he means to consult a few more big-wigs, and in the mean- 
while Master Harry pays like a prince. But whatever his hopes 
are, his wife does not indulge in any. She told me to-day she 
wished it was settled, and that they were away from the Hall, for 
she feels in uch a false position there.’ 

‘ She shall always be welcome there,’ said Robert. 

‘ I don’t think she’s the girl to go. She’s an odd mixture ; she 
was a wayward girl ; but “ sweet are the uses of adversity,” to speak 
like a prig. I expect Florence will turn out a fine character. She 
made a great mistake, but I think she wishes to make the best of 
it ; she does not sit down and blubber, like the fool she has 
married.’ 

For a moment or two Robert did not speak; then he said, ‘ I 
should like to see her ; I suppose she is well enough for me to see 
her?’ 

‘ Yes, if you start no exciting subject ; and I think she would like 
to see you.’ 

‘ I’ll try to get Mary to go with me,’ said Robert. ‘ Speak of the 
devil,’ he continued, smiling, for at this moment Mary opened the 
room door and walked in. ‘ Mary, my dear, in this case you repre- 
sent his Satanic Majesty, for I was just speaking of you.’ 

‘ Thank you for the compliment,’ said Mary, smiling and blush- 
ing, and shaking hands with Dr Arthur, at the same moment. 

There was indeed a new-born graciousness and sweetness in 
her manner, and she looked so bright, so happy, and so hand- 
some, that a very depressed feeling stole subtly into Dr Arthur’s 
heart. 

Mary had in truth taken herself to task about her manner to the 
doctor since she had heard of her change of name and fortune. 
‘ He will think it is pride, when it is only nervousness and folly,’ 
Mary had told herself, and hearing Dr Arthur’s voice in the par- 
lour, she came downstairs resolved to talk to him. 


164 Out of Eden. 

‘How do you think our invalid is looking?’ she said, smiling 
still, and glancing at Robert. 

‘ Much too well to be pleasant to his doctor’s feelings.’ answered 
Dr Arthur, also smiling, and shrugging his shoulders. ‘ When he’s 
become such a great man too, it’s naturally melancholy to me to 
contemplate the prospective loss of such an important patient.’ 

Both Mary and Robert laughed at this, and Robert, in his old 
good-natured way, laid his hand on Dr Arthur’s shoulder. 

‘ Oh, of course,’ he said ; ‘ but you stay and have lunch with us, 
old fellow, if only to see what a fine appetite I have got.’ 

‘ The sight will take away mine,’ laughed the doctor ; but he 
stayed, and fell in love with Mary six times more desperately than 
before. 

She had always been very handsome, but a sort of aggressive 
pride, a strong, deep feeling of shame and anger had made her at 
times seem hard, unwomanly, and cold. Now smiling, sweet, and 
fair, what man could resist her ? Not our grave, middle-aged 
doctor at least, who told himself, as he strode away from Robert’s 
door after lunch, that he was a madman — an utter madman, to 
suppose that a beautiful young woman ‘ like that ’ would ever look 
at him ; that he had been a fool ; that at one time he had perhaps 
trifled with the sweetest gift of God, and that now, of course, Mary 
would naturally look upon him with deserved disdain. 

While the unhappy doctor was thus holding bitter converse with 
himself, Mary and Robert were talking with a new, strange happi- 
ness of their dead mother. 

‘ I am going to ask you to be extravagant, Robert,’ said Mary, 
putting her shapely hand in his ; ‘ when things are all settled I 
want you to put up a beautiful w'hite marble cross, the best that 
you can buy, you know, to our mother’s memory, in Weirmere 
churchyard. They wronged her in her life about here, in death 
let them all know she was the wife of Sir Henry Blunt j the good, 
true wife.’ 

And Mary’s eyes filled with tears. 

‘Very well, my dear,’ said Robert. 

‘ And, and Robert, forgive me if I was sometimes impatient and 
cross,’ continued Mary, in her new sweetness and happiness. 
‘ But no man, only a woman, can understand how dreadful it is to 
have worse than no mother.’ And Mary’s voice sank into a 
whisper. 

Robert was much moved. He had intended asking Mary to go 
with him to see Florence, but something, he scarcely knew what, 
prevented him doing so at this moment. He kissed his sister ; he 
said a few tender words. 

‘ I don’t know when you were cross,’ he said. * You have been 
the best and kindest girl — but I won’t flatter such a conceited 
young woman as Miss Mary Blunt,’ he added, trying to speak 
lightly ; and then he lit a cigar and went out into the little garden 
in front, and looked across the misty lake at the indistinct outlines 
of Weirmere Hall. 

He was almost well now, though thin, and haggard-faced still 


Mrs Harry Blunt, 165 

But he had within him the buoyant feeling of returnmg health. 
And the great change in his position also gave undoubted satis- 
faction.^ But yet he was restless and dissatisfied. He had lost 
something that he could not easily regain, in that sharp struggle 
before his illness began. He smiled bitterly even now when he 
thought what had been preferred to his true and passionate love ; 
smiled, and yet felt not unkindly to the dark-eyed woman who had 
made so dire a mistake ; he would like to see her again, he thought 
— poor Florence ! 

So without returning to the cottage, he began walking along the 
road that led to the Hall. By a bird’s flight across the lake it was 
but a short distance, but by the pathway it was more than two 
miles, and Robert was tired, and the misty winter afternoon was 
stealing down into twilight before he reached the familiar gateway. 
He rang at the Hall door, and his summons was answered by 
Appleby, who received him with great apparent pleasure. 

‘ Mr Fletcher ! ’ he said ; ‘ but I beg your pardon, sir ; perhaps 
I should not call you that now, at least folks are saying so — but 
anyhow excuse me saying it’s a good sight to see you after your 
long illness, and looking so well too,’ added Appleby, bent on making 
himself agreeable. 

‘ Thank you, Appleby,’ answered Robert, in his pleasant, cordial 
way. ‘ Yes, I’m almost out of the doctor’s hands now, I think.’ 

‘And my poor lady’s gone since you were here, sir,’ continued 
Appleby, with a touch of genuine feeling ; ‘ and she was so anxious 
about you, sir ; never a day she did not send me out twice to in- 
quire. I didn’t like to come bothering at your house, but I used to 
hear regularly how you were going on from the doctor’s young 
man, Thirlwell, you know.’ 

‘ Oh yes, Mr Thirlwell,’ smiled Robert ; ‘ thank you, Appleby, 
for making so many inquiries ’ (here there was a little further ex- 
change of civilities by a sovereign passing from Robert’s pocket to 
Appleby’s). ‘ Is — your — is Mrs Harry Blunt at home .?’ 

‘ Yes, Sir Robert,’ answered Appleby, with a bow. ‘ Mr Harry, 
you know, is still in town,’ he added, lowering his voice ; ‘ he and 
Larkins the attorney; but folks says, he’s only wasting his time.’ 
And having given this pleasing bit of information in a confidential 
tone, Appleby led the way to the drawing-room, and opened the 
door, and allowed Robert to walk in unannounced ; for Appleby 
was a prudent man, and wished to give no offence either to the 
present or future possessors of the Hall. 

There was a big, bright fire burning in the ample grate, and by 
its light as he advanced into the room he saw a black-robed slender 
figure lying back on an easy-chair, and two small slender feet 
resting on the fender. Robert not being announced, for the very 
good reason that Appleby did not know exactly what to call him, 
walked close up to Florence before she even raised her head to look 
round to see who it was that had entered the room. When she 
saw Robert she rose with a visible start, and held out a trembling 
hand to him. 

But with a strong effort the next moment she had conquered her 


1 66 Out of Eden, 

agitation. Her pride helped her to do this ; her pride that she 
had stooped so low the last time she had seen him, when Robert 
had half taunted her with pretending a regard for him, and 
Florence had secretly sworn that he should never taunt her again 
with this. 

‘ How are you ?’ she said, now. ‘ Are you better ?’ 

‘ 1 called,’ answered Robert, in that deep, ringing voice of his, 

‘ to ask how you were, and, with your permission, I will sit down.’ 

Florence pointed to a low seat by the fire, with a sort of laugh. 

‘ I suppose it’s really I who ought to ask your permission here,’ 
she said ; ‘but Harry has not come yet, and till then — ’ 

‘ 1 did not come to talk on business, Florence,’ said Robert, with 
a smile ; ‘ we can arrange all that afterwards ; I came to say how 
sorry I was to hear you have been ill.’ 

‘Yes, I — I — caught cold somehow. I think I am better now. 
So Mary would not come with you?’ 

Florence said this nervously and hastily, while Robert kept 
watching her, noting how her cheeks had got thin, and her eyes 
violet-rimmed and sad. 

‘ I did not ask Mary to come with me ; Mary will come in due 
state some day soon,’ he said. 

‘ She must be very pleased about all this ; of course, she is 
naturally very pleased,’ said Florence, looking wistfully at the 
fire. 

‘ Well, I think she is very pleased,’ answered Robert. 

‘ She is sure to be ; her life will be so different ; she is so hand- 
some ; she will be making some great match, Robert ! ’ And 
Florence gave a little, uneasy laugh. 

‘ That is the first thing ladies think of,’ said Robert ; but the 
next minute he repented having spoken the cruel words, for a deep 
flush rose instantly on Florence’s face. 

‘ Yes,’ she said, with a certain defiance gleaming in her eyes, 
‘ of course it is ; it’s our best means of earning a livelihood, 
only we sometimes make mistakes.’ And again Florence gave a 
laugh. 

Robert made no reply. He rose from his low seat by the fire, 
and went to the window, and stood looking down at the misty 
lake. Back to his mental vision at this moment came the night 
when he had stood on this very spot with Florence and asked her 
to be his wife. He remembered what he had offered her — the best 
a man can give, and he remembered her reply. ‘ I am worldly, I 
suppose,’ Florence had said, ‘ I want to be rich and to be my lady, 
and so I must make the best of my bargain.’ 

Her ‘bargain,’ Harry Blunt, had turned out a bitter failure; 
she was not ‘ my lady ’ now, and the day of Robert’s triumph had 
come, and yet he did not feel very triumphant. He was sorry for 
her ; sorry, but sometimes he almost hated her, and yet he loved 
her still ; and he was not going to be so mean, he told himself, as 
again to taunt the ‘ poor little woman. She was only a girl ; poor 
Chester had brought them up badly ; poor Florence ! ’ And 
Robert sighed. 


Mrs Harry Bhnit. 167 

Florence, sitting still by the fire, heard that sigh, and rose and 
came beside him. 

‘ Are you thinking of Lady Blunt ? ’ she said, softly. ‘ Poor Lady 
Blunt, she was alive the last time you were here, Robert.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Robert, looking at Florence’s face in the dim 
twilight. 

‘ Sometimes I have felt sorry about her,’ continued Florence, 
with a sort of charming grace of manner indescribably winning to 
her listener. ‘ Robert, since I have been married, sometimes when 
Harry has been angry, he has said things about poor father that 
have made me think 1 was unjust, perhaps, to Lady Blunt. What 
was the truth about poor father, Robert ; I would like to know ; 
don’t mind telling me ; I can bear a great deal now.’ 

‘ Poor girl !’ said Robert, almost under his breath. 

‘ What did he do .?’ urged Florence. ‘ Did he take her money, 
or what was it ? ’ 

‘ Best not speak of it,’ said Robert gently. ‘ Lady Blunt always 
felt kindly to your father, Florence ; he was unfortunate in business. 
It is not generous of Harry to speak of it now.’ 

‘ Harry does not know the meaning of the word, Robert,’ said 
Florence, a little bitterly. 

Again Robert sighed. 

‘Have you heard from him?’ he asked, presently. 

‘Yes, this morning.’ 

‘Well, and what does he say ?’ 

‘ That he won’t give in, and a great deal of folly. They have 
consulted two barristers, and spent a lot of money, and he admits 
both these men say he has no chance, but they are going to see 
someone else. However, we shall know soon.’ And Florence 
smiled. 

‘ Yes,’ again said Robert. ‘ I think I shall write to him, Florence,’ 
he added. 

‘To Harry ?’ said Florence, in surprise. 

Robert nodded. 

‘ I will tell you why,’ he said. ‘ Mr Howard wishes to urge this 
affair on, and Mary wishes it ; and Mr Howard has also employed 
counsel ; and there is but one opinion among the lawyers on the 
case, and it is a pity for Harry to waste his money. If he likes to 
go into court, of course he can, but I scarcely think he will be so 
foolish, in the face of such positive evidence. However, I do not 
suppose he will, and I wish it to be arranged in a friendly manner, 
for Harry is my father’s son, and the son of a woman for whom I 
had a great regard. So I have made up my mind to offer Harry 
three thousand a year — the whole of his mother’s fortune, in fact, 
— and I don’t think the young gentleman need grumble.’ 

‘ You are generous, Robert, most generous,’ said Florence, deeply 
moved. 

‘ I don’t say I’m generous, but I want to be just. My father, of 
course, did not mean this, he meant all the money to go to the heir ; 
but I think he was unjust to Harry.’ 

‘ Yes, I think he was unjust,’ said Florence. 


i68 


Out of Eden, 

‘ He never could bear the boy ; wasn’t it odd ?’ went on Robert. 
‘You know I was with him a great deal before he died, and he used 
to talk to me quite openly of his dislike to his poor wife and her 
son. But he thought he was bound by honour to keep his first 
marriage a secret from Lady Blunt, as when he married her she 
believed him to be a bachelor. So he made all his arrangements 
and advised me exactly what to do.’ And Robert laughed. 

‘It’s a strange thing,’ said Florence. 

‘ Yes ; and there is Mary, of course, to be thought of. I have 
gone as far as I can, Florence ; I want you to make Harry under- 
stand this, in making him an offer of an allowance of three thousand 
a year. I could not keep up the place and title on less than what 
this will leave me. You see I know the rent-roll exactly, as I have 
acted as agent to the estates.’ 

‘ It is too much for you to give,’ said Florence. ‘ I have been 
thinking, far too much for a younger son.’ 

‘For a younger son in an ordinary position, yes ; but not for a 
younger son in the peculiar circumstances in which Harry has been 
placed ; he was brought up to believe himself to be the heir on his 
own mother’s death, and so far he shall be the heir to her fortune.’ 

‘ I do not know what to say,’ answered Florence, casting down 
her dark eyes, and then lifting them suddenly with a smile to 
Robert’s face. ‘ What is that, Robert, about “ heaping coals of fire ” 
on the head of your enemy ; you are heaping them on mine.’ 

‘ I do not wish to be your enemy ; I do not feel like your enemy,’ 
said Robert simply ; ‘ and now, as I do not want to tire you, I will 
say good-bye.’ And he held out his hand. 

‘And you will come again ?’ said Florence. 

‘ Yes, if I may. In a day or two I will write to Harry, and in the 
meantime I expect he will be gaining experience. Good-bye, 
Florence.’ And the next moment Robert was gone. 

A few minutes later Bessie cautiously opened the drawing-room • 
door, and seeing Florence alone came forward. 

‘ I thought I heard someone talking to you,’ she said. ‘ Has 
Harry come back ? ’ 

‘ No ; it was Robert Blunt,’ replied Florence, and as she looked 
up her sister saw she was crying. 

‘ Robert Blunt ! and he’s been vexing you again ? ’ 

‘ No ; he’s been tellfng me about what he means to do. I mean 
about money.’ 

‘ And what does he mean to do ?’ asked Bessie sharply. 

‘ Oh ! Bessie, he is the most generous, the most noble ! ’ wept 
Florence ; ‘ he is going to give Harry Lady Blunt’s entire fortune- 
three thousand a year.’ 

‘ Well, that really is handsome ! ’ said Bessie. ‘ But what are 
you crying for, Flo ? Why, you’ve made a very good match after 
all ; three thousand a year, indeed, and the son of a baronet ; few 
girls do so well, and in our position it is wonderful ! Come, Flo, 
give me a kiss ; you are a fortunate girl.’ 

‘No, no,’ said Florence, as she kissed her sister, but Bessie grew 
quite lively. 


Mrs Harry Blunt, l6g 

‘Persuade Harry to live in London,’ she said, ‘and we’ll be as 
jolly as possible there ; and after all Weirmere is a stupid place, 
and the country people would always have looked down upon us on 
account of poor father. Things have turned out very well, I think, 
and I am sure if Harry will take a pretty little house in town, I 
won’t for one envy Sir Robert ’ (and Bessie laughed) ‘ the possession 
of this dull old place.’ 

And the Hall was no doubt very dull for the sisters at this time. 
No one had called upon them ; Lady Blunt’s old friends holding 
aloof until, at all events, the disputed title was settled, and it was 
definitely known whether Harry Blunt was the heir, or merely a 
second son. Some of the older ladies remembered perfectly the 
scandal about the first Mary Fletcher, the yeoman’s beautiful 
daughter, who had fled from her father’s roof with the graceless, 
handsome man that they had danced with and admired in the days 
of their girlhood. The affair had never indeed been quite for- 
gotten, and had been revived when the second Mary Fletcher — 
handsomer even than the first — had appeared among them. And 
now, when it was openly said that Sir Henry Blunt had married the 
yeoman’s daughter, and that her son was the real heir, we may be 
sure the whole country side rang with the story. 

At Lansdowne Lodge, Mrs Humphrey and Miss Tomkins could 
talk of nothing else. At first Mrs Humphrey would give no credence 
to the idea of Sir Henry’s early marriage. After Lady Blunt’s 
funeral, however, when Dr Arthur was present, and such convinc- 
ing proofs were laid before Harry Blunt by Mr Howard and the 
clergyman, who had absolutely married Harry’s father to his first 
wife, Mrs Humphrey was obliged to admit that she feared that 
there had been a marriage. 

She was a Christian lady this, who went to church regularly, and 
held her white head very high when she was there, with an air of 
conscious virtue, but she was utterly disgusted to find that Sir 
Henry had married the low-born mother of his children, though 
that low-born mother had been virtuous, pure, and fair. 

‘ It is absolutely shocking,’ she said to sister Ann, and Miss 
Tomkins agreed with her. 

But somehow they never cared to express their opinion quite 
openly before Dr Arthur. They did so, however, to Mr Thirlwell, 
who chivalrously declared, to the horror of the old ladies, that 
‘ Miss Mary Blunt was fit company for the highest of the land ; and 
few of ’em can match her,’ added this ardent admirer. True, Mr 
Thirlwell’s knowledge of the ‘highest of the land’ was bird’s-eye 
and distant, as it were, but this did not prevent him speaking with 
authority on the subject, for it was not one of Mr Thirlwell’s faults 
to be over modest, and Mary had raised the flickering flame of 
love in his bosom to white heat by stopping him one day, when she 
had met him going his ‘ business rounds,’ and talking to him 
‘more agreeably than she had ever done before,’ whispered Mr 
Thirlwell’s delighted soul to him after Mary had proceeded on her 
walk. Now this meeting was after it was well known in the country 
side that not Sir Harry, but Sir Robert, was the heir of Weirmere, 


1 70 Out of Eden. 

and therefore Mr Thirlwell drew his happy conclusions to his entire 
satisfaction. 

‘ She loves me, I declare ; I believe she loves me,’ he told him- 
self, and immediately on his return to Lansdowne Lodge he hurried 
to his bedroom and gazed at himself admiringly in the looking- 
glass. 

‘ Clear skin, he said, ‘ good features, blue eyes, hair thick, with 
a reddish tinge, certainly, but that is fashionable. Yes, nature has 
been a kind godmother to me. I may say I’m handsome — means 
certainly defective, but Mary Blunt will have means — a baronet’s 
daughter, a lovely woman. Joseph Thirlwell, you have done well !’ 

He was so pleased with himself that he was ready to fight a hun- 
dred battles for Mary with the old ladies downstairs. He laughed 
to scorn now (inwardly) the idea of Mary looking at old Humphrey. 
^That was very well when she had no money, and no position to 
speak of ; now she naturally prefers youth and good looks — yes, 
women are fond of looks.’ 

And Mr Thirlwell laughed his self-contented laugh, and thought 
of his many conquests. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

LOOKING THINGS IN THE FACE. 

By the will of the late Lady Blunt, made before the unhappy 
knowledge of Mr Chester’s shortcomings had reached her ears, 
she had left sundry small legacies to her servants and friends, and 
the bulk of her savings (a very large sum), lying as she then 
supposed in deposit account with her bankers, to her son Harry. 
Mr Howard had produced this will at her funeral, as well as the 
copy of her husband’s will, and the documents connected with his 
first marriage. But the overwhelming nature of Mr Howard’s news, 
and the rage and disturbance it had created in Harry Blunt’s mind, 
had swept all other considerations for the time away. But while 
in London, it occurred to him he might as well see his mother’s 
bankers, and know how much ready money she had left behind her. 
Accordingly, accompanied by Mr Larkins, he called at the bank, 
and having sent in his card, he was ushered into the presence of 
one of the partners. 

Then for the first time he heard of his mother’s (supposed) losses 
in business speculations, and listened, pale and speechless, to the 
whole story of certain suspicions having occurred in the iDank at 
the very large sums withdrawn by Mr Chester by means of cheques 
signed by Lady Blunt’s name ; and how one of these cheques had 
been taken down to Weirmere, but that Lady Blunt subsequently 
explained that the money had been lost in unfortunate speculations. 

‘ Mr Chester was known to be an unfortunate speculator, I be- 
lieve, Sir Henry,’ said the banker, with a shrug and a smile, ‘and 
his death happened on the very day after my visit to Weirmere, 


Lookhig Things in the Face, 17 1 

and we — well, we naturally drew our own conclusions as to how 
the money had been lost, but the cheques were signed by Lady 
Blunt’s name, and Lady Blunt admitted the signatures.’ 

‘ They were confounded forgeries ! ’ cried Harry, pale with 
passion. ‘ I understand it all now. That scoundrel Chester !’ 

Upon this Larkins tapped him on the shoulder. 

‘Do not forget,’ he half whispered, ‘remember’ (and he smiled) 

* you married — ’ 

‘ I don’t care who I married,’ interrupted Harry Blunt roughly. 

‘ I remember now, poor mother told me when — when she wanted 
to stop my marriage — but I was married then ; but she told me 
Chester had forged her name.’ 

‘ We always believed so,’ said the banker, ‘ but the man was 
dead, and Lady Blunt did not repudiate the signature ; so there 
the matter ended, but it means a very considerable loss to you, 
Sir Henry.’ 

Upon this Harry indulged in some very strong and coarse abuse 
of his late father-in-law. Larkins, however, tried to stop him, and 
Harry left the bank, having learned that only a very small sum of 
ready money would come to him by his mother’s will, after the 
different legacies that she had left were paid. 

When they reached the hotel he burst into a perfect storm of 
rage, Larkins standing by looking at him with a strong feeling of 
contempt in his heart. Larkins was nearly tired of London by this 
time, and was certainly tired of Harry Blunt. 

‘ I think, you know,’ he said, presently, when Harry paused for 
want of breath, ‘that we had better now look things straight in 
the face.’ 

‘Haven’t we been looking them straight in the face.?’ swore 
Harry. ‘What the do you mean, sir.?’ 

‘ Well, abuse does no good, you know, Mr Harry,’ said 
Larkins. 

^ Mr Harry! Has it come to that then.?’ shouted Harry 
furiously. 

‘ What else can it come to .?’ replied Larkins calmly. ‘We have 
had the best advice, you know, sir, the very best ; and what is the 
upshot .? There is but one opinion among the big-wigs — the late 
Sir Henry married Mary Fletcher ; and I must candidly admit I 
fully concur with them.’ 

‘Oh, you’ve changed your tune now then.?’ sneered Harry 
bitterly. 

‘ I have gone fully into the case, sir,’ answered Larkins, nettled. 
‘ I have studied it, sir, and I’ve had the best advice, sir, and the 
best advice is unanimous there ! Can a sensible man want more ; 
and I, therefore, advise you to make the best of it.’ 

‘ That’s very easy talking.’ 

‘ It can be done, Mr Harry. I have seen Mr Howard, who has 
the management of— well, what’s the use of mincing the matter — 
of your brother Sir Robert’s case, and Sir Robert is inclined to be 
generous, Mr Harry. Mr Howard assures me very generous.* 

‘ The cur ! ’ swore Harry. 


172 Out of Eden. 

‘ No good, sir,’ said Larkins, shaking his head, his glass eye star- 
ing ominously at Harry’s angry face. ‘ Make the best of the situa- 
tion. This is the situation : Your brother Sir Robert is found to 
be the heir ; your father left a will leaving everything to the heir ; 
it was a clever dodge of the old boy, in fact. He wanted his wife’s 
property as well as his own to increase the family estates ; so he 
made a will — d’ye follow me, Mr Harry?’ And Larkins’s lively 
brown eye winked ; glass eye, of course, immoveable still. 

‘ I follow you well enough,’ answered Harry roughly. 

‘ Then you understand that as heir — and he is the undoubted heir 
— Sir Robert steps not only into his father’s shoes, but into the 
property, the landed property, that your mother brought Sir Henry, 
and which was unfortunately not settled on herself, and as the law 
then stood became her husband’s on his marriage. Your present 
position is this, then : You are a younger son, with five hundred 
pounds a year left by your father, and the ready money bequeathed 
to you by name by your late mother, but which, as we have just 
unhappily heard, is much diminished by the — by unfortunate specu- 
lations, in fact.’ 

‘ By that cursed Chester, and no one else,’ cried Harry, with an 
oath. 

‘Well, Mr Harry, Mr Chester has gone to his account, but, of 
course, the sad end which at the time took us all by surprise is now 
accounted for. As the banker has just told us, he took down one of 
the forged signatures to your poor mother. Lady Blunt sent for 
poor Chester; he rode home — what was left for him? Upon my 
soul, I think he acted wisely ! ’ And Mr Larkins shrugged his 
shoulders. 

‘Curse him !’ said Harry, darkly and fiercely. 

‘ It is all very hard on you, no doubt,’ continued Larkins, ‘and 
Sir Robert, recognising this, means to be generous. I had a hint, 
Mr Harry — remember I am not authorised to state this as a fact 
— but I had a hint from Mr Howard that Sir Robert means to 
make over the income derived from your mother’s Yorkshire 
property to you for life. If this is so, it is splendid of him, simply 
splendid.’ 

‘ I would say it was simple justice,’ growled Harry. 

‘Ah, ah, but, Mr Harry,’ said Larkins, smiling, ‘remember 
that this touches a man’s most tender point — his pocket. It’s 
all very fine talking of honour and generosity when one hasn’t 
to pay for it ; but to up-give pounds, shillings, and pence, ah ! 
“there’s the rub.’” And Mr Larkins rubbed his hands sym- 
pathetically. 

‘ It’s a fine muddle for me, anyhow,’ said Harry. 

‘ It’s unfortunate, most unfortunate — but, Mr Harry, make 
the best of it. And to begin with, I do not think it’s any use 
spending more money here. I propose we return to Cumberland 
to-day ; see Sir Robert to-morrow ; have the thing settled, in fact.’ 

After some of his customary language, Harry Blunt finally 
agreed to take Larkins’s advice, and the two accordingly left 
London by the first train they could get, and had a very dull and 


Looking Things in the Face, 173 

heavy journey down. There were no stories told for Harry to 
enjoy on his return home — no jokes, no fun. The two men sat 
opposite each other reading their newspapers, Harry glum, silent, 
angry ; Larkins tired, and glad to get home. They reached 
Oniston late in the evening, and Harry had a long, dark drive 
after this before he arrived at Weirmere Hall, which tended to 
increase his ill-humour. When he did get there, tired and hungry, 
he found Florence and Bessie on the point of going to bed, and 
the drawing-room fire was nearly out. It was a miserable coming 
home, — miserable to the man who came, and to the women who 
had dreaded his arrival. But Florence tried her best to soften it. 

‘ I have some good news for you, Harry,’ she said, as Harry by 
turns grumbled and swore at his ill luck ; ‘ Robert Blunt was here 
a day or two ago — ’ 

‘ Here ?’ interrupted Harry ; ‘ I won’t have him coming here !’ 

‘ Harry, do not be foolish, do not forget this is really his home ; 
and he came to tell me he intends to offer you the whole income 
from your mother’s estate. I think this is generous,’ said Florence, 
with quivering lips. 

‘ Generous ! I daresay,’ retorted the graceless Harry. ‘ Gener- 
ous indeed ! My own mother’s money ! If that cursed scoundrel 
of a father of mine did marry Fletcher’s mother, her son at least 
had no right to my mother’s money, you can’t deny that at any 
rate ? 

‘ It was in Robert Blunt’s power,’ answered Florence, in a low 
tone, ‘ to take it all.’ 

‘Oh, so you’re quite up in the case, are you ?’ sneered Harry. 
‘And what else did my dearly-beloved brother say? Did he give 
us notice to quit?’ 

‘ He said nothing — nothing, but — but what was — ’ and Florence’s 
voice broke and faltered. 

‘ But, but what pray ?’ said Harry roughly. 

‘ I was going to say but what was generous,’ answered Florence, 
with some spirit, looking up with her dark eyes into her husband’s 
face. 

♦ ‘ If you dare speak to me thus ! ’ cried Harry, advancing menac- 

ingly towards her ; ‘ if you dare take his part, I say, and turn 
round on me after you and yours have ruined me, well, by Jove ! 
I’ll kill you!’ 

‘ Why don’t you strike me ? ’ said Florence, completely roused, 
and forgetting all her good resolutions to put up with Harry and 
to remember the wrong she had done him. ‘ Why don’t you add 
unmanly blows to unmanly words ? ’ 

Luckily the entrance of Appleby at this moment with the supper 
tray stopped Harry’s hand in time. But as he sat opposite to her 
his heart was full of rage and jealousy. He kept looking at her, 
and his food seemed to choke him. How handsome she was, he 
was thinking, with her great shining eyes ; he had seen no one 
like her in London ; no one who was so thorough-bred, so proud, 
as this daughter of the scoundrel who had robbed him, and forged 
his mother’s name. 


174 Out of Eden. 

Florence on her part, too, was looking at her husband. He had 
not improved in appearance during the last few days ; his face was 
bloated, its expression lowered. The test of adversity had found 
him wanting, and the useless rages that he had indulged in had 
somehow left their disfiguring marks. He had been fairly good- 
natured as Sir Harry Blunt ; an insolent, selfish boy enough, but 
there were darker lines on his countenance now ; certain subtle in- 
dications of mental degradation and fall. 

‘Is that sister of yours here still.?’ he presently asked, when 
they were alone, for Bessie had retired to bed afraid to face him. 

‘ Of course Bessie is with me,’ answered Florence. 

‘There is no “of course” about it,’ said Harry Blunt. ‘Look 
here, Flo,’ he continued, crossing the room, and laying his hand 
emphatically on her shoulder, ‘ I’m going to have no Bessies here, 
or wherever we go. I can’t afford it for one thing, and for another 
I object to it. I married you, but I did not marry Bessie Chester, 
and, by Jove ! I’ve good reason to hate the very name ! ’ 

‘Very well, Harry, she can go,’ said Florence, shrinking back a 
little from his touch. 

‘ Yes, she must go,’ said Harry ; ‘ and if we have to leave here — ’ 

‘ Harry, we must leave here,’ said Florence, ‘ this is your brother’s 
place now ; do not let us stay until we are compelled to go.’ 

‘ I’ll take my own time about it ; for I’m not going to be ordered 
by you, or Sir Robert, or Sir Devil, or whatever he is !’ said Harry 
brutally. 

‘ I think you would be wise to keep friends with him, or at least 
not to abuse him,’ said Florence. 

‘Oh, I suppose you want to keep friends with him; is that it?’ 
said Harry disagreeably. 

‘ I do not wish to see him ; I do not care to see him,* answered 
the unhappy Florence ; ‘ I only advise you not to quarrel with 
him.’ 

‘ I’ll quarrel with him if I choose,’ said Harry sulkily ; ‘if ever a 
fellow had a right to quarrel with another and to hate him, I have 
a right to quarrel with and hate this low-born brute 1 ’ 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

HOBSON’S CHOICE.' 

Nevertheless Harry Blunt did not, in spite of his abuse, choose to 
quarrel with his half-brother, Sir Robert. Nay, when on the day 
after his return to Weirmere, Robert wrote a straightforward, 
manly letter to Harry Blunt, telling him in plain language the 
same plain facts that Larkins had told him in London, and at the 
same time offering him an income of three thousand a year — the 
income that his mother had brought to her husband — Harry, by 
Larkins’s urgent advice, determined to be civil to Sir Robert. 

‘-“Facts are stubborn things,” you know, Mr Harry,’ quoted 


HobsorHs Choice. 175 

Larkins; ‘and we all must bow to them with the best grace we 
can. This is a handsome letter, sir,’ and he tapped Robert’s letter, 
which Harry had brought for his inspection ; ‘ a manly, outspoken 
letter, and, if I were you, I would take the hand of peace that he 
so handsomely offers to you. By Jove ! I’d jump at it ! ’ 

‘ Pleasant thing to do, indeed,’ grumbled Harry. 

‘ My dear sir, reflect,’ said Larkins. ‘ Sir Robert need not give 
you a penny ; Sir Robert is doing this simply from a feeling of 
honour. I admire an honourable man.’ 

‘ Fellows are generally thought honourable when they’re in luck’s 
way, and come in for pots of money.’ 

‘ Yes, Mr Harry,’ said Larkins philosophically, closing his bright 
brown, twinkling eye, with an air of contemplation, ‘ money, no 
doubt, does make a considerable difference in our estimate of a 
man. And it is but natural, sir, the rich man commands our re- 
spect ; and why ? He has the means to buy what we have to sell 
— our brains, our goods — whatever, in fact, we deal in, and we ac- 
cordingly respect him.’ 

‘ And find out he is honourable, and all that sort of thing,’ sneered 
Harry. 

Larkins laughed. 

‘ We look for his good qualities, sir,’ he said ; ‘ whereas poverty 
is apt to dim our vision, and hide a man’s excellence from all eyes 
but his own. But come, come, Mr Harry, you are rich enough 
yet for us to find many virtues in you ! ’ And again Larkins 
laughed. 

‘ It’s a confounded sell, that’s all I can say,’ growled Harry. 

‘ It was an unfortunate position, sir, no doubt,’ replied Larkins 
briskly, ‘but it is an unfortunate position no longer. You are but 
the younger son instead of the elder, Mr Harry, of a well-born 
gentleman, and an honourable, wealthy lady. Not a bad start in 
life, sir,’ continued Larkins, putting his hands in his breeches 
pockets, and fixing his bright eye on Harry’s face ; ‘ and when we 
add that the income of this wealthy, honourable lady, your mother, 
is now placed at your disposal, — I say, sir, when we add this, you 
are to be envied, Mr Harry ; yes, to be envied.’ 

‘ Can’t see it.’ 

* You blind yourself wilfully, my young friend ; but let us to 
business now, Mr Harry. Take my advice ; sit down here, and 
write to Sir Robert. May I dictate ? Write him a manly, friendly 
letter, a letter in a good spirit — no half measures. He is found to 
be your father’s heir ; he has acted most generously ; he holds out 
his hand to you ; then take it, Mr Harry, take it.’ 

Harry sat sulkily down, and took up Larkins’s pen, and then 
began to bite the end of it, looking all the while hopelessly in 
Larkins’s face. 

‘ Deuce a word I can find to say,’ he said. 

‘ We must commence,’ said Larkins, standing behind Harry, with 
his glass eye sternly fixed on the crown of Harry’s head, and his 
brown eye closed meditatively. ‘How shall we commence? 
“Dear Robert?’” 


1 76 Out of Eden, 

‘ ril be hanged if I do ! ’ said Harry, throwing down the pen. 

‘“Dear Sir,” then,’ continued Larkins, — ‘yes, that will do. 
“ Dear Sir, I have received your letter, and am much touched by 
the generous feeling it displays.”’ 

‘ Can’t write such bosh !’ interrupted Harry. 

‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said Larkins ; ‘now go on, Mr Harry, — 
“much touched by the generous feeling it displays — •” Have you 
got that ? Go on then, — “ I own,” ’ continued Larkins, dictating, 

‘ “ that for a time the extraordinary circumstances which have so 
entirely changed my position almost overwhelmed me — ” what are 
you stopping for, Mr Harry?’ 

‘You use such confounded words,’ said Harry. ‘How the 

do you spell overwhelmed?’ 

Larkins gave him the necessary information, and then started 
off again : ‘ “ but now I have become accustomed to the idea, and 
wish to show the same friendly spirit that you have evinced — 

‘ Evinced?’ inquired Harry dubiously. 

‘ Yes, “ evinced to me,” ’ continued Larkins. 

‘ Can’t spell it,’ said Harry doggedly. 

Again Larkins directed him. ‘ “ As regards the handsome in- 
come,”’ continued Larkins, dictating, ‘ “ that you propose allowing 
me, I accept it in the same temper in which you offer it, and I 
trust that this friendly relationship will always continue between 
us. I shall be pleased if you will call at some early date, so that 
we may make arrangements about leaving the Hall — ”’ 

‘That’s sharp work, Mr Larkins,’ interrupted Harry, looking 
up. 

‘ My dear, sir, you have but “ Hobson’s choice ” about it,’ said 
Larkins ; ‘ make a virtue of necessity, Mr Harry ; give the place 
up with a good grace, and he’ll think better of you. Come now, 
finish your letter, — “ I remain, yours very truly,” that will do, and 
your signature. There ! Mr Harry, the thing is done, and you 
are the fortunate possessor of a large income and an affectionate 
elder brother.’ And Larkins laughed aloud. 

‘ He may keep Lis affections to himself,’ said Harry surlily. 

‘ But don’t tell him so,’ said Larkins, smiling ; ‘ virtually pat him 
on the back, my friend, and you’ll get all the more out of him.’ 
And having given this prudent piece of advice, Larkins made Harry 
direct his letter, and sent a clerk with it to the post at once. 

When this letter was delivered at the cottage by the lake side 
it filled Robert Blunt’s heart with strange emotion. For one thing, 
it was addressed to him by his real name — Sir Robert Blunt — a 
public recognition of his changed position ; for another it opened 
a vista down which he scarcely dared to look. Yet he was pleased. 
He went out into the little garden in front ; he stood looking across 
the water at his future home, thinking perhaps of the dark-eyed 
woman living there, who now could be nothing to him. 

Then he read his letter again, and smiled. He knew quite well 
as he did so that Harry Blunt had never composed it. For a 
moment he thought Florence might have done so, and the idea 
was distasteful. But he suddenly remembered Larkins — yes, 


Hobson's Choice, 177 

Larkins had dictated it, decided Robert, and as he was entering 
the cottage again he met Mary, and put the letter in her hand. 

Mary read it and then looked up in her brother’s face. 

‘ Sir Robert,’ she said, tremulously, and with moistening eyes. 

‘Yes, at ‘last,’ answered Robert, and as he did so Mary kissed 
his cheek. 

‘ May God bless and keep you,’ she whispered, and Robert 
turned away his head, ashamed that she should see how deeply he 
was affected. 

After a moment’s silence, he said, trying to speak lightly, ‘ Well, 
we must do the civil, Mary, and go and call on our new relations ; 
suppose we go to-day, it will only be polite, after Master Harry’s 
letter ? ’ 

Mary made no answer to this. She was most unwilling to go ; 
most unwilling to have anything to do with Florence, and yet she 
did not wish to annoy Robert. 

‘ It is much better that we should be on friendly terms,’ con- 
tinued Robert, ‘ and since Harry Blunt is ready to be civil, I am 
sure — that Florence will.’ 

‘Oh ! I daresay,’ said Mary, rather coldly ; and then after a 
moment’s reflection she added, ‘ but if you wish me to go, Robert, 
I will go.’ 

‘ I do wish you to go, Molly,’ said Robert, and so the matter was 
settled. 

The brother and sister walked up together to the Hall on the 
same afternoon. As they ascended the green hill in front of it, 
Harry Blunt, who chanced to be looking out of the drawing-room 
windows, recognised them. 

‘ Here’s that confounded fellow and his sister ! ’ cried Harry, 
looking round at Florence and Bessie, who were drinking tea by 
the fire. ‘ I’m off ; if they ask for me, say I’m out.’ And in 
another minute Harry had disappeared. 

In the meanwhile Robert had rung at the Hall door, and in- 
quired of Appleby, in would-be indifferent accents, if Mrs Harry 
Blunt were at home. 

‘Yes, Mrs Harry is within. Sir Robert,’ answered Appleby, with 
a pleasant air of decision. He knew, indeed, all about it ; he knew 
his future master was standing before him if he remained butler at 
the Hall, and as he had every intention of doing so, we may be 
sure he did his best to propitiate ‘ Sir Robert.’ 

There was no falter or hesitation in his voice now, when a few 
moments later he threw open the drawing-room door, and an- 
nounced, in sonorous accents, — 

‘5/r Robert Blunt and Miss Bhmti And with a smile Florence 
rose to receive her visitors. 

‘ You see,’ she said, looking up in Robert’s face, and speaking 
in her old gracious, pleasant way, ‘ Appleby is determined to put 
us all in our proper positions at once. Well, I am glad to see Sir 
Robert — and Mary.* And Florence turned round and went up and 
softly kissed Mary’s beautiful cheek. 

Mary blushed, but could not resist the charm of Florence’s 

M 


178 Out of Eden, 

manner. She felt nervous and confused, and was glad to take 
refuge in Bessie’s common-place and tranquillising remarks. 

‘ Will you sit here ? ’ said Bessie agreeably. ‘ How cold it is to- 
day ; ’ and Mary meekly assented and took the chair that Bessie 
presented, while once more Florence turned to Robert. 

‘ It is very good of you to come,’ she said, ‘and very good to 
bring Mary.’ 

‘ I do not see any “good” in it,’ answered Robert, smiling ; ‘ I 
am pleased to come.’ 

‘ You got Harry’s letter, I suppose ? ’ asked Florence. 

‘ Yes ; I was glad to get it,’ said Robert. ‘ Is he at home .?* 

Florence smilingly shook her head. 

‘ Polite people say “ Not at home,” don’t they,’ she said, ‘ when 
they don’t intend to appear, and Harry, I believe, does not.’ 

‘ Well, we must do without him, then,’ answered Robert, still 
smiling, and he drew a chair near Florence’s and sat down. 

‘ I wished particularly to see you to-day,’ he continued, ‘ because 
I wanted to tell you there is not the least occasion for you to think 
of hurrying away from here.’ 

‘ Please tell me nothing of the sort,’ said Florence. ‘ There is 
every occasion, and I really shall be glad to be gone, for I feel in 
a false position here ; indeed I do.’ 

‘ You never can be in a false position in this house,’ said Robert 
gravely ; ‘ do not forget, please, that Harry is in truth the heir of 
Weirmere still.’ 

‘ Unless Sir Robert marries said Florence, a little tremulously. 

‘ Sir Robert is not at all likely to marry — no, Florence, you need 
not think of that.’ 

Florence did not speak ; she rose nervously, and began stirring 
the fire. 

‘ And, Florence, if there is anything in the house you care for, 
will you please take it,’ went on Robert. ‘ Where do you think of 
living when you leave ? ’ 

‘ In London,’ answered Florence, looking round. ‘ I have per- 
suaded Harry to take a small furnished house in London, and your 
generosity has made this quite easy, you know, Robert.’ 

‘ And you would like best to live in London ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; it is easier to get through life in a stir, I think.* 

‘ Perhaps,’ said Robert, and he sighed. 

‘And, Robert,’ said Florence, casting down her shining eyes, ‘I 
have something I want to give to you — to give into your own hands. 
You know when we first came here, after poor Lady Blunt’s sudden 
death, Bessie took charge of Lady Blunt’s jewel case — there are 
some valuable things in it, I believe — and, of course, now it is yours, 
and I would feel happier if you had it.’ 

‘These were Lady Blunt’s jewels, I conclude?* said Robert 
quietly. 

‘ So I was given to understand by Jenkins.* 

‘ Then what have I to do with them ? ’ said Robert. ‘ If they 
had been my mother’s, it would have been different, but my mother, 
poor woman, had no jewels. Sir Henry was too poor in those days 


Hobson's Choice. 179 

to buy jewels, and, of course, would no doubt sell the family ones ; 
and he never mentioned anything about jewels to me. No, Flor- 
ence, these have been Lady Blunt’s own jewels, and go naturally to 
— Harry, and, of course, to you.’ 

‘ Don’t tempt me, Robert,’ laughed Florence ; ‘ all women, you 
know, love jewels ; they are among the snares of the Evil One, 
— though, to be sure, the Evil One is quite out of fashion.’ 

‘But not his snares, as you call them, Florence.?’ 

‘No, indeed, we each have an Evil One in our own hearts, I 
think, Robert, — vanity, folly, whatever we call it — the tempting lure 
that leads us on until — ’ 

‘ Until what, Florence.?’ 

‘Bessie, my dear,’ cried Florence, without answering Robert, 
‘ring for some fresh tea ; Mary, I know, will have some.’ 

‘ And won’t you give me some .? ’ said Robert. 

Still Florence did not answer him. She flitted about the 
room, graceful, charming. Even Mary admitted her charm, as 
Mary’s almost unwilling eyes followed the slim, lithe, black-robed 
figure. 

Then Florence sat down by Mary’s side, and talked in her win- 
ning way. She told Mary she hoped to live in London, and she 
hoped Mary would stay with her there. 

‘ Though I am almost afraid of the consequences,’ she said, with 
her pretty laugh. ‘ You will make a sensation, Mary ! ’ 

‘ Oh, of course,’ said Mary, blushing. 

‘ But, really, will you come now .? I shall be so delighted.’ 

‘ I don’t know,’ answered Mary, embarrassed. ‘ I am a country 
girl. I would feel lost among all the great people.’ 

‘ That’s the pleasure of London. You can be virtually lost there. 
No one knows anything about you, no one cares ; but here, my 
dear, all our little faults, peccadiloes, and misfortunes form an un- 
ending source of amusement and gratification to our friends.’ 

‘ That is quite true, I think,’ said Mary. 

While Florence was talking to Mary, Bessie crossed the room 
and began to compliment Robert. 

‘ I must congratulate you. Sir Robert,’ she said, ‘ though, of course, 
at first both Florence and I felt, well — a little upset ; still the 
title has come to a most worthy possessor, much more worthy than 
my poor brother-in-law.’ And Bessie laughed and modestly cast 
down her eyes. 

‘Thank you. Miss Bessie,’ said Robert, smiling. 

‘ Oh yes,’ said Bessie ; ‘ and I blame myself so much ; but for 
me poor Flo would not have married Harry Blunt.’ 

‘Why did you persuade her to do so. Miss Bessie.?’ asked 
Robert gravely. 

‘ You see we were so poor,’ said Bessie, ‘ and — and it seemed such 
a good match. Oh yes, it was all my fault ; it has made me very 
unhappy.’ 

Robert did not speak. He bit his lips ; he nervously played 
with his hat. 

‘ She tries to make the best of him,’ continued Bessie, in a low, 


1 8o Out' of Eden. 

confidential tone, *but, for my part, I cannot endure him. I can- 
not forgive him that night we came to your house — ’ 

‘ Robert, it is time that we were going, I think,’ here interrupted • 
Mary quietly, approaching her brother, and Robert could only 
rise. 

‘About the jewels?’ said Florence, addressing Robert. ‘Will 
you take them now ? ’ 

‘ Certainly not ; they are Lady Blunt’s jewels. I have nothing to 
do with them,’ he answered. 

‘ Well, suppose you come up — what day shall we say ? Will the 
day after to-morrow do, and we can go through them, and see to 
whom they have to belong?’ smiled Florence. 

‘ I shall be very glad to go over them with you,’ said Robert. 

‘ Do then ; come on Thursday afternoon, and Mary will come 
too?’ And Florence looked at Mary. 

But Mary declined ; she shook hands with Florence and Bessie, 
but she was glad to go away. She was afraid for the dear brother 
who walked by her side so silent and absorbed, after they left 
Weirmere Hall. A sort of mutual embarrassment in fact arose 
between Mary and Robert during their walk home, and neither 
mentioned the sisters nor the jewels, nor anything connected with 
their recent visit. It was a relief indeed to both when, as they 
neared the cottage, they saw a stranger, mounted on a good horse, 
ride up to the little gateway just as they came in sight. 

‘ It’s Larkins, the attorney, from Oniston, I believe,’ said Robert. 

It was Larkins — Larkins gay and debonnair^ who, when he 
recognised them, dismounted and came forward, doffing his shiny 
hat. 

‘Sir Robert,’ he said, ‘and Miss Blunt, I was just going to do 
myself the honour of calling upon you.’ 

‘We are very pleased to see you,’ answered Robert courteously ; 
and accordingly Larkins, having thrown his bridle-rein over the 
gateway to secure his horse, followed Robert and Mary into the 
cottage. 

‘Artistic tastes, I see,’ said Larkins, glancing his lively brown 
eye round the pretty parlour, his glass eye, with its steady gaze, 
having settled itself uncomfortably on Mary’s face. 

‘Yes, I am fond of painting,’ said Mary. 

‘You have many charming subjects around you on this spot,’ 
continued Larkins, with a little gesture towards the window. 

‘ What says the poet, “ With hue like that when some great painter 
dips his pencil,” etc., etc. Yes, the colouring on our hills and 
fells inspires — hem — I may say many emotions.’ 

Mary laughed, and then left the room. 

‘ I daresay you wish to talk to my brother on business,’ she 
said, by way of apology to Larkins, who made a rush to open the 
door for her.’ 

‘Both on business and pleasure,’ said Larkins, addressing Robert 
after she was gone ; ‘ first, allow me to have the pleasure of con- 
gratulating you, Sir Robert ; as I told your young brother, Mr 
Harry Blunt, never did a gentleman more worthy of them succeed 


Hobson's Choice, 1 8 1 

to an ancient title and extensive property. Yes, Sir Robert,’ con- 
tinued Larkins, with conscious virtue, ‘I told your brother this, 
although he was my client ; but I told him the truth. You are 
aware I went up to town with him to take the advice of eminent 
counsel on this case ? That was my duty, although I did not dis- 
guise from him, after seeing the copies of the convincing — yes, 
Sir Robert, the soul-convincing — documents which my respected 
friend Mr Howard had forwarded to Mr Harry ; no, I did not 
disguise from him my opinion. I said, in fact, in homely language, 
“ Mr Harry, we have not a leg to stand on, not a single leg ! ” But 
^ still it was my duty to take the best advice procurable, and I did 
take it. The big-wigs were unanimous — then I said, “Mr Harry, 
look the thing in the face” — these were my very words.’ 

‘ And you helped him to write the letter in answer to mine, did 
you not?’ asked Robert, with a laugh. 

‘ I did. Sir Robert,’ laughed Larkins, in reply ; ‘ Mr Harry is a 
little brusque ; not a student, in fact, and I rounded his sentences 
a bit for him ! Ha, ha, ha I ’ 

‘ Well, it’s all right now,’ said Robert. 

‘ Your noble generosity has made it right, sir. I do not wish 
to be fulsome (I am suppressing my admiration. Sir Robert, in- 
stead of expressing it in full), but I must say something. I have 
lived — shall I say ? — almost to middle age, though age is a delicate 
subject to a widower on the look-out for a charming wife, — ha, ha, 
ha ! But we will admit the middle age ; well, to middle age, then, 
and I have mixed with my fellow-men, and my fellow-men have 
mixed with me, but I have seen nothing like it, sir ; nothing like 
your noble generosity in giving up a noble income, for what? 
Yes, for what? Sir Robert. For a feeling that lives not, or blooms 
not at least, in many breasts as it does in yours, sir ; yes, for 
honour? And Larkins slapped his own waistcoat in front to de- 
note that a corresponding feeling lay hidden there. 

‘ It was but right, I think,’ said Robert. 

‘ It was noble. Sir Robert ! — but talking of right, we have the 
right man in the right place now — and this reminds me, as you 
have stepped upwards into your proper position among the aristo- 
cracy of the land, you will not care to transact your own business, 
I presume. Sir Robert, in the future ; and if my humble services 
will be of any assistance, I place them at your disposal, sir ! The 
late Lady Blunt gave our poor friend Chester seven hundred a year, 
1 believe ; for a similar sum my whole energies will be at your 
command.’ 

‘I have not decided on my future arrangements, Mr Larkins,’ 
replied Robert, with a smile, ‘ but I shall remember your proposi- 

tion.’ 

‘ I shall be proud if you will. Sir Robert ; but now I must take 
my leave. Pray present my respects to Miss Blunt, and tell her 
I regret not having had the honour of bidding her good-bye. I 
have heard much of her beauty. Sir Robert, but in her case reality 
far exceeds anything I have been told. Again, good-bye.’ And 
after an impressing hand-clasp or two, Larkins went. 


iS2 Out of Eden, 

His visit highly amused both Robert and Mary, Robert gravely 
assuring Mary she had an evident chance of this gay widower, 
should her fortune be found suitable. At all events, Larkins made 
the evening more lively, but before it was over something occurred 
that again created an uneasy feeling in Mary’s heart. This was 
caused by the arrival of Appleby at the cottage, with a letter from 
• Florence for ‘ Sir Robert.’ 

It contained but a few brief words, yet Robert read these words 
with a flush on his cheek, and held the paper on which they were 
written with a trembling hand. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

DIAMONDS. ' 

‘ It is from Florence,’ he said, with a little nervous hesitation in 
his manner, which Mary noticed, after he had read his letter. 

‘ Harry Blunt, it seems, has decided on going up to town on 
Thursday, to look for a house, and so Florence wishes us to go to 
the Hall to-morrow afternoon instead of Thursday, to see these 
jewels she talks of. Will you go, Mary?’ 

Mary shook her head. 

‘No,’ she said, ‘why should I go? I have nothing to do with 
them.’ 

‘ Read her letter,’ said Robert, and half unwillingly Mary took 
it. 


‘ Dear Robert,’ she read, — ‘ After you left to-day, being but a 
daughter of Eve, I felt tempted to look into poor Lady Blunt’s 
jewel cases, and I find that their contents are very much more 
valuable than I supposed they would be. As this is the case, 
Mary must really come with you to see'them, for as they are not 
willed to Harry, I feel sure you are their rightful owner. Harry 
has decided to go up to town on Thursday to look for a house, so 
will you and Mary come to-mort'ow afternoon, at four o’clock ? — 
Yours sincerely, • Florence Blunt.’ 

Mary read this letter, and then laid it down on a table near. 

‘ Well, will you go ?’ said Robert, looking at her. 

‘ I would rather not, Robert,’ answered Mary. ‘ I think these 
jewels should be Harry Blunt’s — they were his mother’s, not ours.' 

‘ I think so, too,’ said Robert, and he rose, took up Florence’s 
letter from the table, and left the room. 

He did not write to Florence. He went along the narrow 
passage of the cottage that led to the kitchen and outhouses, and 
in the kitchen he found Appleby warming his substantial person 
before the blazing fire, coat-tails under his arms, and gazing con- 
templatively at the rows of blue-patterned plates on the rustic 
kitchen shelves. 


Diamonds, 183 

‘Ups and downs of life — astonishing!’ Appleby was thinking, 
contrasting in his mind the homely cottage kitchen and the lofty 
servants’ hall that he was accustomed to. ‘ It’s a neat little place,’ 
he said, now addressing Mrs Draper, who still lingered at the 
cottage, loth to quit such comfortable quarters, ‘ but certainly it 
will be a great change.’ 

‘ You mean to Sir Robert and Miss Mary, now promoted to the 
Hall,’ answered Mrs Draper, who was sitting in her usual rusty 
black, sewing a little black frock for one of Mrs Moony’s children. 
‘ Ay, Mr Appleby, it’s a world of change ; we don’t cast our out- 
ward skins quite clean off, as I am given to understand the crabs 
do on the sea coast, but ours comes off more gradual all the same, 
and inside and out of us there is always some change going on.’ 

‘Well, it’s an agreeable change for Sir Robert at all events,’ 
answered Appleby, with dignified condescension. 

‘So it seems now, sir,’ said Mrs Draper, sadly shaking her head ; 
‘but we never can tell, Mr Appleby, either of a rise or a fall. 
There’s Sir Robert, he’ll take to hunting now, I daresay, as mostly 
the gentry do— and, of course, he’ll want to be as like them as 
possible — and mayn’t he break his neck any day, whereas if he’d 
kept in his low estate it might have remained safe on his shoulders ?’ 

‘ You take a mournful view of life, Mrs Draper,’ said Appleby^. 

‘ I’ve had good cause to do so, Mr Appleby, for I’ve mostly lived 
in the shady side ofit. Indeed, I may say the sunshine has never 
come my way. What with Draper, who took to drink the very 
day we were married, and debts in consequence, and accumulated 
difficulties, I wouldn’t know myself in comfort or ease of mind.’ 

‘You should get married again, Mrs Draper,’ said Appleby 
jocularly. 

‘One was enough, sir. No, if I have anything to be thankful 
for it was that Draper was took off quite sudden, before he brought 
us both to the work’us ; and now I get along pretty well in the 
laying-out line, for there’s always corpses, and if I can do anything 
in that way for you, Mr Appleby, I’ll give your friends every 
satisfaction.’ 

Before Appleby could reply, the kitchen door opened, and 
Robert walked in, and Appleby dropped his coat-tails, and his 
jocularity alike. 

‘ Good evening. Sir Robert,’ he said, respectfully. ‘ Mrs Harry 
Blunt sent me down with a note, sir, which no doubt you have re- 
ceived, and she also sent a message. I was to tell you. Sir Robert, 
not to trouble to write, but just to let me know if you and Miss 
Blunt could call to-morrow afternoon at the Hall.’ 

‘Tell Mrs Blunt that I shall be very glad to call,’ answered 
Robert, ‘but my sister is unfortunately engaged. I shall call 
about four.’ 

‘ I shall deliver your message. Sir Robert. And there is another 
little matter I should like to mention to you,— only — ' And 
Appleby looked at Mrs Draper, who took the hint. 

‘ I’m going upstairs with the fatherless babe’s little frock, sir,’ 
she said, and so she and her black cap mildly disappeared. 


1 84 Out of Eden, 

‘ It’s about the changes shortly to be expected at the Hall, Sir 
Robert,’ continued Appleby, casting down his light eyes and 
moving his big feet nervously on the floor. ‘ I have lived, as you 
know, many years there, and shall be glad to continue in my pre- 
sent position, sir, if my services will be acceptable to you and Miss 
Blunt’ 

‘ I shall be very glad for you to stay, Appleby,’ said Robert, in 
his frank, pleasant way, ‘ and I hope all Lady Blunt’s old servants 
will remain on just as they are. I see no reason for any change.’ 

‘ Thank you, Sir Robert ; and I may say, in the name of my 
fellow-servants and for myself, that we shall all be proud and 
happy to serve you, sir. We felt the death of our poor lady very 
much ; she had been a kind friend to us all, and it came so sudden 
upon us ; but you’ll excuse me saying so, I’m sure, sir, but she’ll 
have a most worthy successor, and one she set great store on. 
When you were ill. Sir Robert, you might have been Lady Blunt’s 
own son, she was that anxious for you.’ 

‘ It was very good of her,’ said Robert. 

‘Ay, poor lady, she had her own troubles ; but I will not detain 
you further, Sir Robert. I will tell Mrs Henry Blunt she may ex- 
pect you to-morrow about four ; and now, sir, I wish you good 
evening,’ and with a respectful bow Appleby went away. 

Robert said nothing to Mary about Florence, or the Hall, when 
he returned to the parlour beside his sister. He did not even 
mention Appleby’s proposal to remain on in his service. There 
was plenty of time to settle all these things, he thought, but it was 
so unlike his frank nature to be so reticent, that his reserve filled 
Mary with vague uneasiness. And he did not even again allude 
to his proposed visit to the Hall on the following day. On the 
following day, however, when the brother and sister met at break- 
fast, the ground was covered with the first snow of the year, and 
Mary thought it but her duty to express a hope to Robert that he 
would not go out. 

‘ You won’t think of going, will you, Robert, in such weather as 
this, to see about those jewels V she said. ‘ After all, what matter 
.are they ; and I am sure it would not be safe for you to go out.’ 

‘ Oh, I won’t take any harm,’ he answered, in a would-be care- 
less tone ; and all the morning he went whistling about the house 
in a restless, aimless way, and Mary felt that any further remon- 
strance would be in vain. 

The weather cleared up about noon, and the sun shone on the 
white beautiful world around ; on the sharp peaks in the blue dis- 
tance, and on the leafless woods by the blackened waters of the 
lake. The leafless woods were now snow-trees, each bare branch 
holding its white burden to the sun. Mary stood at the window 
admiring the scene, her fresh fair skin fresher and fairer for the 
frost, and as she watched she saw a solitary horseman wending his 
way towards the cottage through the untrodden snow. 

Her rose-like b’oom deepened, her breath came short, and she 
drew softly away Irom the window, expecting each moment to hear 
Arthur Humphrey’s well-known voice. But she only heard the 


Diamonds, 185 

muffled tread of old Jenny pass the cottage, and when she again 
ventured to approach the window there was but the doctor’s back 
and Jenny’s vanishing in the distance. 

‘ Did you see the doctor pass, miss ?’ asked Mrs Draper, an hour 
or so later. ‘ Dear me, how old the snow makes one look, the 
doctor’s face had quite a shrunk look ; but then, to be sure, he 
isn’t young.’ 

‘ He is not old at any rate,’ said Mary sharply; ‘and he’s very 
good-looking.’ 

‘ Well, miss, looks just go by fancy, and there’s no accounting for 
it,’ answered Mrs Draper mildly ; ‘ for my p^rt, I like something 
fresher coloured, more like young Mr Thirlwell, now.’ 

Mary began to laugh, and Robert entering the room at this 
moment, she turned round and said playfully, — 

‘ Robert, here is Mrs Draper admiring Mr Thirlwell ! ’ 

‘Indeed!’ laughed Robert. ‘Well, are you going to make a 
match of it, Mrs Draper ?’ 

‘ Oh, Sir Robert, what a man you are for a joke with an old 
woman to be sure,’ answered Mrs Draper, not displeased ; ‘but 
as for marrying, as I told the butler from the Hall last night, 
once was enough of that. 1 could not expect to be released 
again.’ 

‘ One way of looking at it,’ said Robert, with a comical shrug 
and a laugh. ‘Well, Molly, will you go with me to the Hall 
after all ’ 

‘No, dear, not to-day,’ she answered, looking at him tenderly. 

‘ Take care of yourself, Robert, and be sure you are at home 
before dark.’ 

She followed him to the cottage door and stood there looking 
after him, shielding her face with her hand and arm from the rays 
of the glinting sun. He looked back once and waved his hand to 
her, and then went striding on among the soft white snow. Before 
him, standing out against the sky, on the hill above the lake, was 
his future home, and somehow, as he looked at it, one of those 
subtle links of thought which bind together the present and the 
past, carried his mind back to his dead mother and to all her per- 
ished hopes. How often she too must have looked across the 
lake at the house of her high-born lover ; how often thought of the 
time when she would expect to live there, while her children 
prattled on her knee 1 We know how all this ended — a nameless 
life, a nameless grave ! ‘ Poor mother,’ thought Robert, his heart 

full of tender pity and regret. He remembered her — a beautiful, 
sad-faced woman with her eyes cast down — now (he thought) if 
she had lived she would have raised them, and smiled in her 
children’s faces. 

Still thinking of his mother and of her sad and shadowed life, 
Robert at length reached the Hall. Appleby, we may be sure, 
smiled on him as he opened the Hall door, and almost affection- 
ately ushered him upstairs into the drawing-room. 

But it was empty. A few minutes later, however, Florence 
appeared, carrying in her hands two heavy brass-bound ebony 


1 86 Out of Eden. 

boxes ; and as Robert went forward to relieve her of her burdens, 
he noticed her face was pale and her eyelids heavy and swollen. 

‘ Thank you for coming,’ she said, smiling, as she shook hands 
with him ; ‘ it is so good of you to come on a day like this.’ 

‘ Oh ! I’ll take no harm,’ answered Robert, smiling also ; ‘ and 
may I ask what you have in these two most formidable-looking 
trunks 

‘ Diamonds !’ laughed Florence. ‘ Do you know, I have made 
a discovery, Robert ? Both these jewel boxes have once belonged 
to a Mrs Hazeldene — look, there is her name engraved on the plate, 
and Mrs Hazeldene was — ’ And Florence looked inquiringly at 
Robert. 

‘ She was the wife most probably of Mr Walter Hazeldene, my 
father’s cousin, who left him a fortune after his second marriage, 
his marriage with poor Lady Blunt,’ answered Robert. 

‘ That is what I concluded, and evidently he must have also left 
him his wife’s diamonds. Rosamond Hazeldene ; poor Rosamond ! 
how proud she must have once been of them ! ’ And Florence 
proceeded to unlock one of the boxes. ‘ You see the crest ? ’ she 
went on, as she did so ; ‘ Appleby tells me a great deal of the 
best plate has the same crest, not the Blunt crest, evidently the 
Hazeldene.’ 

‘ Yes, I see,’ said Robert, watching Florence’s slim, white fingers. 

‘Then you understand all the drift of these solemn prepara- 
tions ? ’ asked Florence, looking smilingly up in Robert’s grave 
face ; ‘ you understand the reason now I wished Mary to come ; 
these diamonds are very valuable ; they were not Harry’s mother’s, 
but Mrs Rosamond Hazeldene’s, your father’s cousin’s wife, who 
left your father all his worldly possessions. You are your father’s 
heir, so. Sir Robert, allow me to give you your diamonds into your 
own safe keeping.’ And Florence made a little playful bow and a 
wave of her slim hand to the ebony boxes. 

‘You think there is no mistake ?’ asked Robert gravely. ‘Yes, 
this is the Hazeldene crest, sure enough,’ he added, examining the 
lids ; ‘ I have often seen it among the other papers. Well, Flor- 
ence, now let us have a look at the diamonds.’ 

‘They are very handsome,’ said Florence; ‘I asked Jenkins if 
poor Lady Blunt ever wore them, and she told me she never did. 
See, are they not splendid ? And Florence opened one of the cases 
that had lain so long in the ebony box. 

The case contained a necklace of single stones set in antique 
silver ; then Florence opened a second case, in which lay shining 
and glittering on the faintly-discoloured white velvet lining a mas- 
sive pendant and earrings. 

‘Are they not beautiful?’ said Florence; ‘but the bracelets are 
more splendid still— they must be worth thousands and thousands, 
Robert!’ 

‘ I don’t know,’ answered Robert, smiling, and shaking his head. 

‘ Look, these are the bracelets I ’ said Florence, and she took one 
of the broad, massive, shining bands of truly magnificent diamonds, 
set in antique silver like the rest. 


Diamonds. 1 87 

‘ How they sparkle,’ said Robert, taking one in his hand ; ‘ they 
are fine stones, I suppose ? ’ 

‘ They are most valuable, I should think.’ 

‘ May I try one of these on your wrist to see how they look !’ 
asked Robert, and with a little laugh Florence held out her hand 
and her blue-veined delicate wrist. 

Robert clasped on one of the bracelets. ‘ Now, the other,’ he 
said, and Florence held out her other hand. 

‘ May I try the necklace ?’ he said. 

Florence threw back her shapely head, and held up her white 
throat, and as Robert clasped the necklace under the dark, soft 
hair, he accidentally touched her neck, and in an instant the white 
throat grew crimson. 

‘ It’s like dressing up for a pantomime, isn’t it.?’ said Florence, 
with a little nervous laugh, and she turned round with the glitter- 
ing stones on her neck and wrists. 

‘ They become you very well,’ said Robert, with a grave, kind 
smile. 

Florence laughed again, and began to unfasten one of the bracelets. 

‘ Wait a minute,’ said Robert. ‘ And so you really and trul)' 
think these diamonds are mine now, Florence .?’ 

‘ I don’t think,’ answered Florence, in her pretty way, ‘ I k7io'w 
they are yours, and Mary will look beautiful in them — most beau- 
tiful, Robert.’ 

‘ Mary will never wear them,’ said Robert, still gravely. ‘ The 
only jewel Mary prized — her mother’s honour — is now hers, and 
she would not care for these, even if I meant them for her. Will 
you accept them, Florence — accept them from me.?’ 

For a moment Florence made no answer. She looked up sur- 
prised in Robert’s face ^ a sudden blush dyed her cheeks, and then 
as suddenly she grew pale. 

‘ You do not mean this ?’ she asked. ‘ It is — but nonsense.’ 

‘No, it is not,’ he answered. ‘I give you the contents of the 
jewel cases, Florence. I will write your name if you like — write 
Florence Blunt from Robert Blunt — so that there can be no mistake.’ 

Then deeply moved, Florence went forward and took hold of one 
of Robert’s hands. 

‘ Robert,’ she said, ‘ I — I cannot — I cannot accept your generosity. 
You have already given us too much ! ’ 

And suddenly Florence burst into passionate tears. 

‘ Now, Florence, this is folly,’ said Robert, and he laid his hand 
kindly on her shoulder. ‘ Come, little woman, I can’t bear to see 
you cry.’ 

‘ Oh ! Robert,’ sobbed Florence. 

‘ You had best put away your diamonds,’ continued Robert, 
trying to speak lightly ; but for a few moments the bitter regret 
in Florence’s heart completely overpowered her. 

‘ Forgive me,’ she said at length, in a broken voice, once more 
taking Robert’s hand. ‘ Robert, forgive me what I have done.’ 
And she stooped down her head and kissed his hand, and Robert 
turned away, and bit his lip to hide his own emotion. 


1 88 Out of Eden. 

‘ I once asked Harry to forgive me,’ now said Florence, half 
smiling, amid her tears ; ‘ he didn’t understand me, Robert, but I 
think you do.’ 

‘ Yes, I understand,’ said Robert, ‘ and — and I forgive you, 
Florence, a great wrong.’ 

Neither spoke for a few minutes after this. They stood there, 
both pale and sorry, Robert half bitter still. 

‘ If I had been plain Robert Fletcher — if I had had no diamonds ’ 
— this thought actually flashed through his heart at this moment, 
and yet he checked it. And Florence looking up into his face saw 
or guessed with her quick perceptions something of what he thought. 

She drew away from him ; her expression changed. 

‘ At least,’ she said, ‘ Robert, I cannot take your diamonds.’ 

‘ But why.?’ he asked, annoyed. 

‘ I do not want them, for one thing,’ answered Florence, trying to 
assume her old pretty manner ; ‘ they are unfit for my low estate. 
You must keep them for Lady Blunt.’ 

‘ There is and will be no Lady Blunt,’ said Robert coldly. ‘ I 
wish you to take them, Florence.’ 

But Florence shook her head. 

‘ No, Robert, I would rather not,’ she said. 

‘ But I thought it was settled, I thought we were friends — ’ began 
Robert, with some urgency. But as he spoke the room door 
opened, and Bessie, looking very melancholy and tearful, came in. 

‘ I heard you were here, Sir Robert,’ she said ; ‘ I am not fit to 
be seen ; I know that I have been crying all the morning — and no 
wonder?’ And Bessie began to whimper. 

‘ What is the matter, Miss Bessie ? ’ asked Robert. 

‘ Has Florence not told you ? I thought she would have told 
you — but it’s no matter,’ wept Bessie. 

‘What was the good of telling him, Bessie — of worrying him 
also?’ said Florence. ‘Don’t cry, dear,’ she added, kindly, going 
up to her sister, and taking her hand. 

‘ It’s all very fine about not crying, but what am I to do?’ said 
Bessie, looking up. ‘ I will tell Sir Robert, if you won’t. What do 
you think, Sir Robert — think of my fine brother-in-law, who never 
would have married Florence, never, but for me ? Yet this little 
wretch, for I can call him nothing else ; no, I won’t hold my 
tongue, Florence, he is a little wretch, — and what do you think he 
has done ?’ 

‘ I really do not know, Miss Bessie.’ 

‘He has turned me out of the house!’ cried Bessie, very in- 
dignantly. ‘ He won’t let me live with Florence in London, and 
he won’t give me anything to live on — there / ’ And Bessie sobbed 
aloud. 

‘ Come, don’t give way, Miss Bessie,’ said Robert. ‘ I daresay 
you’ve had a quarrel with Master Harry, that is all ? ’ 

‘No,’ said Bessie angrily; ‘he said he would have no sister-in- 
law nor mother-in-law hanging about his house making mischief. 
These were his very words ; luckily our poor mother is dead, she 
wants nothing from his tender mercies, but what am I to do ? ’ 


Changing Houses. 189 

‘Oh, we’ll arrange something,’ said Robert; ‘I’ll see Harry 
about it ; you need not be in any distress about your future, Miss 
Bessie.’ 

‘ How good you are ! ’ said Bessie, drying her eyes. ‘ How very, 
very good : I do not know how to thank you enough.’ And she 
held out her hand, which Robert took with a good-natured smile. 

‘ Well, I will say good-bye for the present,’ he said, now turning 
to Florence ; ‘ reconsider your decision about the diamonds,’ he 
added, in a low tone, ‘ I shall always look upon them as yours.’ 

‘ No,’ said Florence, ‘ I cannot take them.’ 

Scarcely was he gone when Bessie eagerly asked Florence what 
he had said about the jewels. 

‘He offered them all to me,’ said Florence, casting down her 
eyes ; ‘ he urged me to accept them.’ 

‘ And of course you did V 

‘ No, I refused them, Bessie ; I shall never take them ; he may 
despise me, but not at least for this.’ 

‘ I think you are a fool,’ said Bessie sharply; but Florence made 
no answer ; she re-locked the heavy jewel cases, and carried them 
away, she had made up her mind to send them to Robert. 


-P 

CHAPTER XXX. 

C H A N G I N G H O U S E S. 

The next day Harry and Florence Blunt left Weirmere Hall and 
went up to London for the purpose of seeking a furnished house 
there. But before Florence left the Hall she sent Appleby down 
to the cottage with the jewel cases containing the late Mrs Hazel- 
dene’s diamonds. 

‘ Dear Robert,’ she wrote, — ‘ I send Appleby down this morn- 
ing with the diamonds before I leave here, as I think they will be 
safer in your hands. Harry knows nothing about them ; they are 
unquestionably yours, and though I thank you very much for offer- 
ing them to me, I cannot accept them ; but remain always, yours 
sincerely, Florence Blunt.’ 

Robert read this note, and received his diamonds with strangely 
mingled feelings. He was greatly annoyed that Florence should 
have refused them, and yet somehow he respected her for doing so. 
He wished that she had taken them ; he did not want to go down on 
his knees again mentally to this little woman — so he told himself. 
He preferred the good-natured attitude of forgiveness and pity which 
he had assumed. Yet here was Florence, who had sold herself for 
the gauds of this world, flinging back some very splendid gauds in 
his face. They disturbed Robert these diamonds ; he looked at 
them in private, shining on their age-discoloured velvet, as they 
had shone when the velvet was fresh and new. He wondered any 


tgo Out of Eden, 

woman could resist them — these fragments of solid light, where 
everlasting sunbeams flashed. 

He told Mary, Florence had refused to accept them, but not until 
Appleby had brought down the cases to the cottage. Then he told 
her, nervously and awkwardly enough. 

‘ Florence made me take Lady Blunt’s diamonds,’ he said. 

‘ Why?’ asked Mary, looking at him ; ‘they ought to be hers.’ 

‘ So I say,’ said Robert, and then the subject was dropped. He 
did not offer them to Mary ; he did not even ask her to look at 
them. He remembered the inscription on the lids of the cases, 
Rosajuond Hazeldene^ and he thought that perhaps if Mary knew 
to whom they had really belonged, she would not be so sure that 
Florence should now be their possessor. 

Robert locked away the brass-bound cases, and for a week or so 
things went on at the cottage very quietly, and then a letter came 
from Florence to Robert to tell him they had taken a small fur- 
nished house in town, and that Harry did not intend to return to 
Weirmere Hall again. 

‘ Dear Robert,’ wrote Florence, — ‘ Harry has requested me to 
write to you to tell you that we have taken a little furnished house 
in Chapel Street, Park Lane, and he does not wish to return again 
to Weirmere, so Bessie will pack our belongings, and if you will go 
up she will arrange with you about the day she leaves. The house 
we have taken is rather pretty, principally furnished with fans. It 
belongs to some Irish countess, who was originally a Frenchwoman, 
and she must evidently have a taste for fans, as they abound of all 
shapes, sizes, and colours, the walls of the drawing-room being 
almost covered with them. But it is a pretty little place on the 
whole, and I hope when you come to town you will very often find 
your way to Chapel Street, and I hope, also, that you will bring 
Mary. Harry desires me to say he will be glad to see you ; and I 
remain, sincerely yours, Florence Blunt.’ 

This letter was left at the cottage by the postman when the 
brother and sister were sitting at breakfast, and it was brought into 
the parlour by Mrs Draper. 

‘ Here’s a letter for you. Sir Robert,’ she said, ‘ with a deep black 
edge ; I’m sure I hope there’s no ill news inside.’ 

‘ I don’t expect there is, Mrs Draper,’ he answered, and then he 
read his letter, and he coloured as he did so. 

He read it twice, and then he crossed over to his sister’s side of 
the table, and put it in her hand. 

‘ Well, the coast is clear you see,’ he said. ‘ When would you 
like to go, Mary, and take possession of your father’s house?’ 

Mary did not answer at once ; she was affected, and she put her 
hand into her brother’s before she spoke. 

‘ It seems all like a dream,’ she said at length. 

‘“I had a dream, which was not all a dream,” Mr Larkins would 
no doubt quote on the occasion,’ said Robert, with a laugh, which 
was half nervous. ‘No, my dear, it is not a dream, before the 


Changing Houses, 191 

week is over I hope to see you installed as mistress of Weirmere 
Hall’ 

‘Till another mistress comes/ said Mary tenderly, rising and 
kissing her brother’s brow. ‘ Dear Bob, I — I hope you will be very 
happy/ and Mary’s voice faltered. 

‘ Of course I mean to be happy,’ said Robert, with a laugh, 
and then he went to the window and commenced whistling softly 
as he stood there with his hands in his pockets, thinking of his 
future life. 

Presently he turned round. 

‘ I shall go up and call on Miss Bessie, I think, this morning/ he 
said. ‘ Come with me, Molly, like a good girl. I am rather fright- 
ened to go alone ! ’ 

‘ What nonsense, Robert ! * 

‘ It’s quite true, my dear.’ 

But Mary would not go. 

‘ You are quite big enough to take care of yourself/ she said, 
laughing. And so Robert put on his overcoat and went out to 
encounter his interview with ‘ Miss Bessie’ alone. 

Bessie had been expecting him, and she ran downstairs really 
overjoyed when Jenkins rapped at her bedroom door to tell her 
‘Sir Robert’ was in the drawing-room. 

‘ I am so glad you have come/ said Bessie, so warmly that 
Robert gave a little smile ; ‘ it has been so dreadfully wretched for 
me being here all alone, I have not known what to do with myself 
— I did think’ (and Bessie cast her eyes modestly on the floor) 
‘of coming down to the cottage — but then Mary has not been up 
to see me — and so I thought that I had better not.’ And Bessie 
looked up with a trustful look and smiled in Robert’s face. 

‘I am sorry you have been so lonely/ said Robert good- 
naturedly. 

‘ Oh ! it has been miserable ; these wretched servants. Sir 
Robert, are so rude 1 I do think that is contemptible of them. 
Poor Flo thought she was marrying the baronet and all that, for 
she could not of course tell about — ’ And Bessie stopped confused, 
feeling she had made a mistake. 

‘No, of course she could not tell about my prior claims/ said 
Robert, with a grim smile, as Bessie paused ; ‘ that would have 
made all the difference, eh. Miss Bessie.?’ 

But Bessie had seen her error. 

‘ I persuaded her/ she said. ‘ Florence never would have mar- 
ried Harry Blunt but for me ; at the very last she wanted to 
go back, and the day after the wedding she told me how bitterly 
she regretted it. I will never forgive myself/ continued Bessie, 
with some genuine feeling. ‘ I made her do what she hated ; I 
was the worldly one ; and see how it has ended ! ’ and Bessie 
began to cry. 

But Robert made no attempt to console her. He bit his lips and 
frowned as Bessie went on with her story, but he did not believe 
her. He had asked Florence to be his wife, with his own lips, and 
Florence had refused him ; here, in this very room, thought 


tg2 Out of Eden, 

Robert bitterly ; it was all very fine now ; he was sorry for Flor- 
ence ; she had the finer nature of the two, he thought, regarding 
Bessie’s red nose and eyelids with grim indifference. 

‘ I would leave him if I were Florence,’ continued Bessie angrily, 
at seeing how little Robert was affected ; ‘ he is horrid ! She has 
been taken in in every way ! ’ 

‘“For better for worse, for richer for poorer,” Miss Bessie!’ 
scoffed Robert. ‘You persuaded your sister, you say, to make 
these vows, and, as Harry Blunt has turned out for worse and for 
poorer, do you want her to break them ? ’ 

‘ I did not expect you would sneer like that. Sir Robert,’ said 
Bessie energetically, drying her eyes and giving her head a jerk. 

‘ I thought you once liked Florence ! ’ 

Robert gave a harsh little laugh. 

‘ What’s the good of talking in this way ? ’ he said ; ‘ Florence is 
my half-brother’s wife. I think. Miss Bessie, we had best drop the 
past.’ 

‘ Perhaps it is wiser,’ said Bessie meekly. ‘ I — I was led away 
by my feelings to say what I should not. I will try not to do it 
again. About the things — I mean the furniture and all that. 
Florence said I was to say that, of course, they had taken nothing, 
and she wished that Mary and you would come to-morrow here 
before I leave.’ 

And Bessie began to cry again. 

‘Is there anything Florence would like, do you think.?’ asked 
Robert, coolly indifferent to Bessie’s tears. * Had she a fancy for 
anything ? Do tell me, please, Miss Bessie. I should like her so 
much to have anything she cares for.’ 

‘She cares for— china,’ answered Bessie, with a sob. ‘These 
Dresden china figures — I think she would like them — ’ 

Renewed sobs here interrupted her. 

‘Please pack them up then, and anything else you think she 
would fancy ; and is there anything you would like. Miss Bessie .? ’ 

Bessie again dried her eyes, and considered. She wished very 
much to make Robert like her, but she was quick enough to see 
that she had not yet succeeded in doing so. 

‘ I would like something to remind me ; to keep in remembrance 
—if only a book,’ she said presently ; ‘ I would like, I think, a 
volume of Tennyson or Byron.’ 

Bessie cared nothing for the subtle, thought-laden verse of the 
Laureate, nor for the grand music of the gifted Lord, who perished 
in his prime. But she wanted to be modest and lady-like, and to 
please Robert by the refinement of her choice, and with a gooi 
natured smile Robert offered to go to the library and get her the 
books. 

‘And if there is anything else. Miss Bessie, look round and please 
take it,’ he said, as he left the room. 

Bessie did look round, but it was not a pretty room adorned 
with a hundred pretty trifles. It was sombre and cold, like the 
old mistress, and there was nothing to specially take Bessie’s fancy. 
But as she sat there a thought suddenly struck her, and when 


Jenkms's Opinion, 193 

Robert returned to the room with handsomely-bound copies of 
both Tennyson and Byron’s works in his hands, and placed them 
smilingly on Bessie’s lap, Bessie carried her idea into effect. 

‘ Here are your books,’ said Robert pleasantly. ‘ Well, have you 
chosen anything else ? ’ 

‘ Oh, thank you ! what lovely copies ! I shall always keep them 
and prize them. I have not chosen anything else — indeed, these 
are enough ; there is only one thing. Sir Robert — about the ward- 
robe And Bessie cast down her eyes. 

‘ The wardrobe ! ’ repeated Robert, with a little laugh ; ‘ do you 
mean poor Lady Blunt’s dresses ? I thought the lady’s-maid 
always got them ; that Jenkins would get them ?’ 

‘ There is such lovely lace,’ said Bessie, in a low, modest tone, 
still without raising her eyes ; ‘ it seems such a pity — ’ 

‘ Well, of course, if it’s any use to you or Florence, please take 
the lace or anything else you like,’ said Robert. 

‘ There is some beautiful antique lace,’ said Bessie, now looking 
up smiling; ‘I thought I might mention it I think Florence 
would like it.’ 

‘ Of course, take it then.’ 

‘But what do you think. Sir Robert.?’ continued Bessie appeal- 
ingly. ‘ I asked Jenkins for the keys of poor Lady Blunt’s ward- 
robe, and she was so impudent. She said she would give the 
keys to those to whom they belonged — to Sir Robert and Miss 
Blunt.’ 

Robert made no reply; he went to the bell and rang it, and 
when Appleby appeared in answer to his summons, he said, very 
quietly, — 

‘ Will you ask Jenkins for the keys of Lady Blunt’s wardrobe 
and bring them here .? ’ 

‘Oh! thank you!’ said Bessie, as Appleby bowed and disap- 
peared. ‘ They are so rude to me ! ’ 

The keys were produced in a few minutes, and Robert placed 
them in Bessie’s hands in Appleby’s presence. 

‘ Take what you like,’ he said, and so Bessie had a small triumph 
after all. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

JENKINS’S OPINION. 

A BIG Stone, with a plank across the centre, and an urchin riding 
on each end, called in Northern parlance a ‘see-saw,’ is no bad 
image of the ‘ up and downs ’ of life. See the rising urchin with 
exulting smile ascend into the high places, and the doubtful, 
anxious look with which the descending youngster nears the ground, 
afraid of the blow which may suddenly befall him. Therefore 
Robert felt both pride and some elevation when, on the following 
day after his interview with Bessie Chester, the carriage from the 


194 Out of Eden, 

Hall arrived by his orders at the cottage to take his beautiful sister 
to her new home. In the same carriage poor Bessie had been 
driven to the station an hour before in very depressed spirits. 
Robert having gone up, and Bessie having gone down on the social 
‘see-saw,’ their different frames of mind are easily accounted for. ^ 

True, Bessie had some things to be thankful for, even on this 
day of iDitterness. In her smart new trunks (got after poor Lady 
Blunt’s death for the purpose of coming down to the Hall in state) 
were no less than three velvet gowns, which had all belonged to 
the late lady ; an Indian shawl, and yards and yards of the beauti- 
ful antique lace that Bessie had coveted. Nor was this all ; Bessie 
had got the keys, she had been told to take what she liked, and she 
took everything that she thought would be either useful or orna- 
mental. She locked herself into Lady Blunt’s room, and having 
thus secured herself from Jenkins’s prying eyes, she had it all her 
own way. The servants would be sure to abuse her at any rate she 
thought, and so she was determined not to care for them. They 
dare not say anything to her, as Appleby had seen Sir Robert give 
her the keys, and heard him tell her to take what she liked. So 
she did not leave the Hall by any means empty-handed, nor with- 
out a certain promise from Robert that she would not be left un- 
provided for, even if Harry Blunt carried out his threat and refused 
to allow her to live with Florence. 

Upon this subject Robert had indeed sent a distinct message by 
Bessie to Florence. 

‘ I shall be up in town next week,’ he had said, * and will you 
tell Florence I shall call on her, and we can arrange matters ; you 
are one of the family now, you know. Miss Bessie,’ he added, smil- 
ing good-naturedly, ‘ and as I am the head of it, it is my place to 
look after you.’ 

Bessie was effusively grateful, and Robert shortly afterwards 
went away, and Bessie consoled herself with the possession and 
use of the keys. She spent her last day at the Hall in packing, and 
the next morning, with a tingling sense of defeat and failure in her 
heart, she started on her journey. She could not help thinking of 
the last time she had passed along this road to the station on their 
return to the Hall, after Lady Blunt’s death. If Florence had not 
felt particularly happy, even with her ‘ blushing honours thick upon 
her,’ Bessie had certainly felt happy in the reflection of these 
honours. As she had been then proud and elated, she now felt 
proportionally depressed and humiliated. She was glad when she 
reached the station ; glad when the misty Cumbrian hills faded into 
the distance. She tried to console herself by thinking of the 
various contents of her trunks, but lace and velvet were nothings 
to what she had lost. 

In the meantime Robert and Mary were arriving at the Hall, 
where we may be sure they were received with every mark of 
respect and pleasure. Mary, who had only been in the house once 
before, felt exceedingly nervous. She went up into the drawing- 
roorn, where afternoon tea was ready, and Robert followed her 
smilingly. Robert, indeed, felt quite at ease in his new position. 


Jenkins's. Opinioiu 1 95 

He had always known that the day would come when he would be 
called upon to fill it, but to Mary the change still seemed almost 
overpoweringly great. The first thing she did was to go to the 
window, and look across the lake at her old home. Mrs Draper 
had been left in charge of the cottage for the present, and Mary had 
brought her own maid with her ; but, of course, all the other 
servants were strangers. And presently, when Robert, man-like, 
found an excuse to go and visit the stables, the housekeeper 
rapped at the drawing-room door, and asked what bedroom Miss 
Blunt would be pleased to select as her own. 

Mary gave a little start — it was all so new — but followed Mrs 
Walsh, and heard all that the good woman had to say about her 
* late dear lady ’ with kindly sympathy. She heard also how 
‘young Mrs Harry’ seemed ‘a sweet young creature, but very 
delicate and very quiet.’ This description seemed so unlike 
Florence, that Mary looked surprised, but she said nothing until 
Jenkins, the late Lady Blunt’s maid, appeared and asked ‘Miss 
Blunt ’ to kindly go with her into her late lady’s room. 

‘ I was with my poor lady twenty-one years come March,’ said 
the frosty-faced Jenkins, with some bitterness, ‘and I had charge 
of all; but when Miss Bessie Chester’ — here Jenkins tossed her 
head — ‘ came down after poor Lady Blunt’s sudden death, the first 
thing she did was to ask for my poor lady’s jewel-cases, her that 
wasn’t yet laid in her grave ! I had to give her the keys, but I 
think it my duty to tell you this now, miss, so that Sir Robert may 
look after his own.’ And again Jenkins tossed her head. 

‘ Oh, it is all right,’ answered Maiy, smiling ; ‘ Mrs Harry Blunt 
sent for my brother about these jewels, and he wished her to keep 
them all, but she declined, and though my brother left them with 
her, she sent them down to the cottage with Appleby before she 
left here.’ 

Jenkins’s face during this speech of Mary’s was really an amusing 
study. 

‘ She declined the diamonds ! ’ repeated Jenkins, her mouth and 
eyes opening wide with astonishment. 

‘Yes,’ said Mary, suppressing her inclination to laugh. 

‘ Well, Miss Blunt, all that I can say is, that Miss Bessie Chester ’ 
— a toss of the head — ‘ asked me for the keys of my lady’s wardrobe 
after Mr and Mrs Harry Blunt had left for London, but 1 thought it 
but my duty, miss, to decline, seeing that Miss Bessie Chester’ — 
another toss — ‘ had nothing whatsoever to do with my late lady ; 
indeed, my dear late lady couldn’t abide her ! Well, miss, I de- 
clined, and I suppose Miss Bessie Chester’ — third toss — ‘must have 
gone to Sir Robert with her story, for Sir Robert sent for my lady’s 
keys, and gave them into Miss Bessie Chester’s hands. I mention 
this, miss, to account for the state in which you will find my dear 
lady’s wardrobe. * Miss, as I have said, I have lived twenty-one 
years here come March, and I may also say, on my Bible oath, that 
my poor dear lady’s clothes, even to the worst of her pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, and some of them were a good deal worn ; but they were 
all here, everyone of them, until Miss Bessie Chester got the keys. 


196 Out of Eden, 

Now I can find nothmg. Three beautiful velvet gowns, as good as 
new, for my dear lady mostly dressed but plain ; her Indian shawl, 
brought from the Indies, miss, by her great-uncle. Sir Richard 
Hyde, and all the beautiful real lace on which my lady set such 
store, and all her good underclothing — all go7ie ! I can find 
nothing, miss, that’s valuable ; that’s the truth. The keys were 
sticking in the drawers just as you see them. I said to Mrs Walsh, 
we’ll leave everything Just as Miss Bessie Chester left them, until 
Miss Blunt arrives.’ 

‘You say my brother gave Miss Chester the keys.?’ said Mary 
quietly, when Jenkins paused for lack of breath. 

‘That is true, miss ; he sent Appleby down for them, and placed 
them in her hands before Appleby, which was very marked.’ 

‘ Then he evidently intended her to take what she wished. Lady 
Blunt’s things naturally went to her son’s wife, and Miss Chester 
was acting for her sister, I suppose. But everything that is left 
will you take yourself, please, Jenkins. No, I don’t want to see 
them’ (for Jenkins was beginning to open the drawers). ‘ I have 
nothing to do with them, and I wish to have nothing.’ And Mary 
smiled. 

‘ Oh, miss, you are too kind,’ said Jenkins, and she drew out 
her handkerchief and began to rub the end of her frosty nose. 
‘There’s such a difference in ladies ; them that is ladies is ladies, 
not upstarts. There was the poor dear we lost, now, though she 
was cold in manner, her heart was solid gold, and not lacquered 
up, as I call them, who don’t know how to behave themselves when 
they get by accident among their betters ? I’ll not name names. 
I don’t want to make any particular remarks, but I must say Miss 
Bessie Chester beat everything I ever saw.’ 

‘Well, she is gone now,’ said Mary soothingly. 

‘ And a good riddance ! But, miss, I beat her in one thing. My 
poor dear lady, not long before her last journey, bqught a new 
sealskin, and it was on her, poor love, when she breathed her last ! 
Appleby brought it down, and gave it into my charge, and I just 
put it quietly away, for I thought maybe Miss Chester would want 
a sealskin like that, as she wasn’t in the way of seeing such, and I 
thought I would wait to see how things turned out before I 
mentioned it. I have it safe, miss, and I’ll fetch it; it’s a real 
beauty.’ 

‘Please, Jenkins, don’t bring it,’ said Mary; ‘I am sure my 
brother would wish you to keep it ; after your long and faithful 
service with Lady Blunt.’ 

‘ Oh ! miss, it’s not for the like of me,’ said Jenkins, really moved. 
‘ My poor lady paid a vast of money for it. Of course, you are so 
kind— 

‘ Please keep it,’ said Mary ; and Jenkins went downstairs, and 
declared in the servants’ hall that Miss Blunt was a real lady ; 
that it was plain to see she had her father’s blood in her ; that she 
was downright handsome ; none of your people who have their 
good days and their bad days indeed, and one never can tell how 
they may look, like Mrs Harry Blunt ; but Miss Mary Blunt was 


Patrons, 197 

good honest pink and white, and her hair had the proper gold 
tinge, and she’ll make a great match some day, or my name isn’t 
Elizabeth Jenkins.’ 


The brother and sister dined together in the evening, and by 
this time Mary’s first shyness and discomfort had passed away. 
She sat there opposite to Robert in a white Cashmere dress, a 
woman fair to look on, and after the servants had left the room 
Robert admiringly remarked on her appearance, — 

‘ Well, you are a swell, Mary,’ he said, smiling. 

But even as he looked across the table at her his memory played 
him an unkindly trick, and another face rose before his mental 
vision — a dark-eyed girl with a sparkling pendant on her slender 
throat — Florence, as he had seen her the first time he had dined 
with Lady Blunt, and with a restless sigh Robert rose from the 
table, leaving the wine and dessert untouched. 

‘ Come, let us go into the library, Molly, and have a smoke. After 
all, it’s very dreary here, isn’t it, just you and I he said, and Mary 
rose and followed him ; inducing Appleby to remark with mild 
superiority to Thomas, as he was taking away the untasted wine, 
‘ They’re not quite up to it yet, but they’ll get more used by-and- 
by ; ’ meaning to the manners and customs of good society, in 
which he considered Robert and Mary were yet deficient 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

PATRONS. 

Robert looked brighter the next morning when he came down to 
breakfast. His strong, vigorous manhood had triumphed over the 
depressing shadows of the night before. For this house felt 
strangely haunted to him. Wherever he turned he could not help 
thinking of Florence ; she had sat there, she had touched some 
trifling thing, and her memory lingered like a subtle perfume of 
he past. 

‘ But he would not think of her,’ Robert told himself, and so he 
came downstairs with his head erect, and with a determined ex- 
pression on his lips. But a little thing quickly softened this look. 
A letter, only a word or two, but in Florence’s h^dwriting, was 
lying on the table waiting for him, and as Robert read it Mary saw 
his face suddenly flush. 

‘ What a brute that fellow is ! ’ he said, angrily, the next moment, 
throwing down the letter. ‘ What do you think he’s done .? Kicked 
Florence’s little terrior — brute T he muttered again, in a lower 
tone, as he opened his newspaper. 

‘ Has she written to you about it ? ’ asked Mary coldly. 

‘She’s going to send it down here to-day,’ answered Robert. 
‘ She’s going to send it by an especial messenger ; fancy, she’s so 
fond of that dog, too. Could you conceive anyone being so utterly 


198 Out of Eden. 

lost to everything a man should be? Fancy, kicking his wife’s 
favourite dog ! ’ And Robert started up from the breakfast-table 
in a rage. 

Mary did not speak ; she bit her lips, and poured out Robert’s 
tea. 

‘ Poor Lady Blunt had a favourite horse, a horse grown old in 
her service,’ continued Robert, in atone of suppressed indignation, 
‘and she always told the coachman Bullfinch had to be a life 
pensioner ; but in the few days Harry Blunt was master here he 
absolutely sold the old brute for a mere trifle. But luckily for 
Bullfinch the man rued of his bargain, and then this young bear 
ordered his mother’s old favourite to be shot. But even the men 
in the stable didn’t like the business, and before the execution was 
carried out Master Harry had to resign the reins.’ 

‘ Oh, Robert, how cruel ! ’ said Mary, who was excessively fond 
of animals. ‘ And is this poor old horse still in the stables ? You 
must take me to see him.’ 

‘ All right, my dear ; he is still in the stables, and likely to con- 
tinue there for the remainder of his natural life. Yes, I’ll take you 
down to see him, and I’ll send a groom to the station to meet poor 
Florence’s messenger ; and now will you give me some tea ? ’ And 
Robert once more sat down to the^reakfast-table. 

But he was unsettled and distuf^d. He took up Florence’s 
letter again, and got out his ‘ Bradshaw.’ 

‘ By-the-bye, Molly,’ he said, presently, ‘ I think I’ll ride over 
and ask Arthur Humphrey to dinner to-day, if you don’t object ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! I shall be very glad,’ answered Mary, and she was con- 
scious that she blushed ; but Robert never looked at her. He lit 
his pipe and went out on the terrace, and then Mary saw him 
talking to one of the grooms. Mary herself also felt disturbed 
and excited. She was so pleased that Arthur Humphrey was 
coming ; so pleased that Robert should ask him so soon. 

She went upstairs and began arranging her new rooms. Robert 
had told her to order what she liked, and Mary was a woman with 
artistic tastes, and was indeed a very fair artist herself. And while 
she was thus pleasantly employed, at Lansdowne Lodge Mrs 
Humphrey and her sister. Miss Ann, were holding solemn con- 
verse about her. 

‘ You heard what young Thirl well said at breakfast, sister ? ’ said 
Mrs Humphrey, drawing her knitting from its silk bag. 

‘You mean about — ’ hesitated sister Ann. 

‘ The new people of Weirmere Hall,’ continued Mrs Humphrey, 
going on nervously with a sock for her son ; ‘ they went there 
yesterday — and I suppose they will expect — considering Arthur’s 
professional acquaintance with them — that I should call.’ 

‘ I think they will expect it, sister,’ said Miss Ann. 

‘ It will give them a sort of position,’ went on the white-haired 
old lady ; ‘ and as there is no doubt — so Arthur tells me, that poor 
Sir Henry actually was mad enough to marry the mother of these 
young people — I suppose I ought to patronise them, though to me 
such marriages are abhorrent.’ 


/ 


Patro 7 ts, 1 99 

* They are a sad mistake,’ said Miss Ann, who was of a milder 
nature than Mrs Humphrey. 

‘A terrible mistake ! ’ said Mrs Humphrey ; ‘look at the dread- 
ful misery that this one alone has caused. Poor Lady Blunt ! 
fancy her last miserable thoughts — her son without fortune, position, 
anything ! no wonder it killed her !’ 

‘ They say this young man— the present Sir Robert, you know— 
has acted very generously about money. Larkins, the attorney, 
told me the other day in Oniston that he had given up the whole 
of poor Lady Blunt’s fortune to poor Mr Harry.’ 

‘ I don’t believe it,’ said Mrs Humphrey briskly. 

‘Well, Larkins told me with his own lips, sister,’ said gentle 
Miss Ann, ruffled at having her news doubted. ‘ And Larkins has 
had the management of the affairs from first to last, and I did 
hear Sir Robert was going to make him agent of the estates.’ 

‘ Such changes,’ said Mrs Humphrey, with a disgusted jerk of her 
knitting needles. 

‘ Well, we must go with them, I suppose,’ said Miss Ann, with a 
resigned sigh. 

‘X.he world is turning upside down, I think,’ answered Mrs 
Huniphrey. ‘A successful biscuit-maker is thought more of now 
than the old gentry, if the old gentry have not money to buy the 
biscuits. We have lived toojjjtetig, sister. Good birth is nothing 
now.’ 

However, the upshot of this conversation was that the two old 
ladies decided to call on Mary. They ordered a cab from Oniston, 
so as to do the thing in proper state, and impress on Mary that 
it was a formal business, and not a visit of friendship. They ar- 
rived at the Hall on the same afternoon, just when Mary was 
starting out after lunch, with a well-laden basket in her hand, to 
visit her old patient, Mrs Moony. 

This poor woman indeed still continued very ill, and had not 
thrown off the effects of the fever as the vigorous Robert had done. 
And Mary was very good to her, and literally clothed and fed the 
fatherless family, who had learned to behold, with the unfeigned 
delight of hungry childhood, the tall, fine form of Mary make its 
appearance near their door. This vision meant to them fulness 
and warmth, inwardly and outwardly. It meant cakes and apples, 
and other delicacies hitherto unknown ; and no lover ever watched 
for Mary more fondly than did the youthful Tommy, if her pres- 
ence was expected. 

She had promised to go down this afternoon, but just as she left 
the Hall the cab from Oniston, containing Mrs Humphrey and 
Miss Ann, was to be seen ascending the drive up the green hill 
in front of the house, and common civility prevented Mary pro- 
ceeding on her way. 

Mrs Humphrey saw her from the carriage window, and a flush 
rose on the old lady’s faded cheeks. 

‘ I declare, sister, here is — the young woman,’ she said. 

* Miss Blunts whispered sister Ann impressively ; and Mary, 


200 


Out of Eden, 

having now seen who it was, came smilingly to the door of the cab 
as it drew up at the entrance of the Hall. 

‘ Good morning, Mrs Humphrey,’ she said ; ‘ can I help you 
out ? ’ 

‘ I — I thank you,’ said Mrs Humphrey, endeavouring to speak 
with dignity, though to do so when descending from a shabby cab 
was a trying position; ‘my sister and I were about to give our- 
, selves the pleasure of calling on you.’ 

‘ I am very pleased to see you,’ answered Mary, her beautiful 
colour deepening softly ; ‘ I am sorry my brother is out. Will you 
walk in ? ’ 

Mary had a natural grace, and was handsome beyond question, 
and the two faded old ladies who had gone to patronise her felt 
somehow not quite at their ease, as they followed her into the 
drawing-room that they knew so well, and where they had often 
gone to visit the" sad and sombre woman who was gone. 

‘ I know this room well,’ said Mrs Humphrey, looking round the 
well-remembered scene as soon as she had seated herself ; ‘ I was 
intimate with poor Lady Blunt’ 

‘ Her old friends must miss her very much,’ said Mary ; ‘ and 
— and it is kind of you to come and see me, for it must be painful 
to you after she is gone.’ 

This speech almost won poor Mrs Humphrey’s narrow, but not 
unkindly heart, and it did win that of the gentle Miss Ann. 

This ancient spinster fluttered beneath her mantle of flimsy dyed 
silk, and the colour stole up to the roots of her soft white hair. 

‘ We are pleased to come,* she said ; ‘ we have often heard of you 
from my nephew Arthur — and another gentleman,’ she added, with 
a smile. 

Mary blushed softly. 

‘ We know Dr Arthur very well,* she said ; ‘ I owe him a debt I 
can never pay (here her voice trembled), for I am sure he saved my 
brother’s life.’ 

This opened an endless theme of pleasant conversation, and the 
two old ladies were really quite delighted with their visit, and sat 
chatting to Mary and drinking tea in a very friendly fashion. Then 
Mary asked them if they would like to see their poor friend’s 
flowers (meaning Lady Blunt), and took them to the conservatory. 

‘ You will like some for Lady Blunt’s sake,’ she said, commenc- 
ing to cut each old lady a bouquet ; and this girl, who used to be 
so proud and cold, almost repellent, in her manner, now, in her 
new-born happiness and graciousness, spared no trouble to please 
and conciliate Arther Humphrey’s aunt and mother. 

As for Aunt Ann, she could do nothing but talk about her, when 
the two sisters were once more in their cab on the way back to 
Lansdowne Lodge. 

* She’s a beautiful creature, isn’t she now, sister?* said Miss Ann, 
smelling her roses, and full of that pleasant feeling which comes 
over the old at the kindly attention of the young. 

‘ Yes, she is handsome ; she has a look of her father, and Sir 
Henry was remarkably handsome,’ replied Mrs Humphrey, also 


Patrons. 201 

regarding her flowers with pleasure and admiration. ‘But it’s not 
her beauty, sister, that surprised me ; I was prepared for that 
under the circumstances, but it was her manner. Her style is 
good ; where did she get that?^ And the old lady drew up her 
head, knowing herself to be so excellent a judge. 

Sister Ann quite agreed with her. They, indeed, went home 
thoroughly pleased with their first visit to Weirmere Hall under 
the changed circumstances, and were yet more pleased when they 
found Sir Robert Blunt standing talking to Dr Arthur at the gate 
of Lansdowne Lodge. 

Dr Arthur introduced Robert to his mother and aunt, and when 
Robert took off his hat, and bowed low his good-looking head, Mrs 
Humphrey afterwards declared ‘he might have been his father, 
for he was just such another elegant man.’ 

This change of opinion about both brother and sister may seem 
very sudden, but the peculiar circumstances justified it, Mrs Hum- 
phrey and sister Ann both felt. Robert and Mary had gone up in 
the world, and they therefore naturally estimated them differently 
from when they were down. We all do this. If our friend has a 
hole in his coat we are quite satisfied, in our own minds, that it is 
his own fault that the hole should be there. And no doubt it 
mostly is ; and, therefore, when our friend wins a new coat and a 
new name, whether by his own merit or that Providence has 
blessed him, is it not natural that we should think more of him .? 
We forget the old out-of-the-elbow days then, when we were 
somewhat shy of being seen with him, and now link our arm in 
his in the broadest of sunshine. Sir Robert Blunt was a very 
different person to Mr Robert Fletcher, though they had the same 
features, whiskers, and hair, and in the matter of complexion 
Robert Fletcher had certainly had the better of Sir Robert, who 
had never quite regained the brown hues of health after his late 
illness. ' But then his fine manner (just like his father’s), that Mrs 
Humphrey admired ! Perhaps there was something in this, for an 
assured position gives a pleasant assured manner even to the most 
modest-minded of men. None of us, truly, not the most gifted, 
have a right to hold our heads high, for in a moment our most 
precious gift may go, and what the Great Giver gives He can re- 
call. But it is much not to have to stoop down our heads, ‘ and 
look the whole world in the face, for he owes not any man.’ 

As Sir Robert certainly could do this, it might account for the 
improvement in his manner ; for after Mrs Humphrey had made 
her best bow in return to his salutation, she said, graciously, — 

‘ We have just been doing ourselves the honour, Sir Robert, of 
calling upon your sister.’ 

Again Robert touched his hat and bowed, and both the gentle- 
men smiled at Mrs Humphrey’s information, Sir Robert good- 
naturedly, Dr Arthur grimly. 

‘ I hope you found her at home ?’ said Sir Robert. 

* Yes. And she kindly gave us these lovely flowers,’ said Mrs 
Humphrey, with her grandest air, as if winter roses were quite 
common to her. 


202 


Out of Eden, 

‘ She is a beautiful creature, Sir Robert,’ twittered in Miss Ann. 

‘ I think I never saw a more beautiful girl.’ 

‘ I think she is handsome,’ said Robert, looking with a pleased 
smile at Miss Ann’s little faded face, which now wore a soft pink 
flush with excitement. ‘ I am glad you have seen her, and I hope 
you will come soon to see her again. And now I must wish you 
good day, for I am going to the station to see after a dog. Don’t 
forget half-past seven, Humphrey.’ And having once more bowed 
to the old ladies, Robert went away, and Dr Arthur followed his 
mother and aunt into the house. 

‘ So you have been worshipping the rising sun, then ? ’ he said, as 
the ladies were unfastening their cloaks. 

‘ I do not understand you, Arthur,’ answered Mrs Humphrey, in 
an injured tone, looking at her son. 

‘ Calling on our new neighbours,’ continued Dr Arthur ; ‘ people 
just come into the neighbourhood.’ 

‘ Did you not wish us to call on Sir Robert and Miss Blunt .?’ in- 
quired Mrs Humphrey, with dignity; ‘I understood they were 
friends of yours.’ 

‘ I wished you to call long ago, mother, not now,’ said Dr Arthur, 
and he walked into his surgery, and shut the door behind him, feel- 
ing deeply annoyed. 

‘ Arthur is a most eccentric person,’ said Mrs Humphrey, looking 
at her sister. 

‘ I — I think he admires Miss Blunt,’ half-whispered Miss Ann, 
‘and who can wonder ; we must put her flowers in water, sister. I 
daresay it will come all right about Arthur by-and-by.’ 

In the meanwhile Mary, having seen the old ladies safely off, 
had proceeded to pay her intended visit to Mrs Moony’s miserable 
cottage. Mary felt very happy ; she was so pleased that Arthur 
Humphrey’s mother and aunt had called on her ; so pleased that 
she would soon see Arthur Humphrey again. She walked along 
the damp path by the lake with her firm light tread, and in her heart 
a glad sensation of expected joy. 

She laughed aloud when she saw Master Tommy watching for 
her, round-eyed and hungry ; laughed when he ran forward to 
receive her, hugging his dirty little arms through the handle of 
Mary’s basket in delight. 

‘ Let’s carry her,’ he said ; ‘ my 1 what a big ’un I ’ 

‘ It’s too heavy for you. Tommy, dear,’ said Mary ; ‘it’s got some 
wine in it for poor mother, and something for Tommy too.’ 

Tommy smiled benignly at this prospect, and ran before Mary 
extreniely jubilant. He was rosy, he was happy, he was healthy, 
while inside the cottage sat the care-burdened mother, white faced, 
pinched, with all the shadows of a deadly disease on her wasted 
features. 

But she too smiled when she saw Mary, and rose feebly to offer 
her a seat. 

‘ How are you to-day?’ said Mary gently. 

‘ But middling, miss — ay, my time’s nigh come, I think, to leave 
this weary world.’ 


Patrons. 


203 

‘Come, you must not give way, you have your children,’ said 
Mary, and she set down her basket on the brick floor, into which 
Tommy immediately plunged an inquiring hand. 

‘Tommy, don’t do that!’ cried Mary, looking round; but 
Tommy had been too sharp, and had already an apple and a 
piece of cake in his hand, with which he now fled into the corner. 

Then Mary drew out a bottle of port wine, and uncorked it, 
and gave a glass to the worn-faced mother, and as she sipped it 
tears gathered in her dim eyes. Mary pretended not to notice 
her emotion. She brought out her good things ; she gave the 
pretty little girls their share. She pretended to scold Tommy, 
but ended by giving him a larger allowance even than the others, 
but then Tommy’s capacities were known to be unlimited. 

The little ones (at the happy age when oranges and apples are 
the joys of life) were soon in full employment, but still the tears 
ran down the mother’s pale cheeks, and Mary, noticing this, made 
her drink more of the wine. Perhaps the generous port unloos- 
ened her tongue ; perhaps she had long thought of and brooded 
on this moment ; but she suddenly seized Mary’s hand and began 
sobbing aloud. 

‘ Oh, miss ! ’ she said, ‘ I am not worthy of your goodness. 
When you come here, looking like an angel out of heaven, and 
are that kind-like to the poor childer as if they were your own 
flesh and blood, I am thinking all the while what — what I am — 
what 1 did 1 ’ 

‘ What you did ! ’ repeated Mary, looking at the weeping woman in 
surprise. ‘ I do not understand.’ 

‘How could you, miss?’ moaned Mrs Moony; ‘you who are 
that pure-like, and to whom sin and sorrow has ne’er come 
nigh. Oh ! miss, miss, if I could tell you and ease my bursting 
heart 1 ’ 

‘ What is it ? ’ said Mary gently, and she put her arm round the 
trembling woman’s neck. ‘ Tell me if I can be of any help to you 
— any comfort ? ’ 

But Mrs Moony did not speak at once ; she rocked herself to- 
and-fro ; she looked up with pleading, imploring eyes into the sweet 
face bent over hers. 

‘ The doctor doesn’t think I’ll live, miss,’ she said, presently. 
‘ I’ve that in me that’ll kill me ; and — and miss, when I look at you — 
you who nursed me in the fever, when poor Moony got away — I can’t 
keep silence ; I can’t hide it any longer, miss ; for I may as well out 
with it — I did you and yours a bitter wrong?’ 

‘ You did us a bitter wrong? ’ said Mary, her face flushing ; ‘ I do 
not understand you ! what do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Miss, I wasn’t always what 1 am now ! ’ cried the unfortunate 
woman. ‘ Twenty-one years ago I was a comely lass, and my 
sister was still-room maid then at Weirmere Hall — ' 

‘At Weirmere Hall?’ said Mary, now beginning to tremble 
also. 

* Ay, miss, at Weirmere Hall ; you’ve little thought when you’ve 
been coming and going that the poor soul you’ve helped had done 


204 of Eden, 

that which would — but turn the childer out, miss ; turn them out, 
and I will tell you all ; it’s but right that you should know ; you’ll 
know better nor a poor ignorant woman like me what to do ; if it 
will mend the wrong I have done you, miss ; well, you can take my 
poor useless life, for what is it worth now — what is it but pain and 
sorrow now ! ’ 

Mary spoke no word ; she was trembling, she was sick and faint, 
but she led the little children into the inner room and gave them 
some toys and sweets to play with, and then she shut the door and 
went back to the woman, who was weeping and moaning by the 
kitchen fire. 

‘ I’ll make a clean breast of it ! ’ she cried, as Mary approached 
her. ‘ Sit down there, miss — sit and I’ll kneel down — for I’ll tell it 
on my knees — tell my sin and my sorrow, and the bitter wrong I’ve 
done to you 1 * 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

MARY^S SECRET. 

An hour later Mary left the miserable cottage by the lake side, 
trembling and cold, and oppressed with a terrible secret, and a 
new sense of responsibility and wrong. She had listened to a dark 
story — a story influencing her own life, but more nearly still that 
of the dear brother whom she regarded with such anxious, tender 
love. And she was so uncertain what to do — so afraid. 

‘ Oh 1 why did she tell me ? ’ she said, half-aloud, as she hurried 
home, thinking of the tearful confession of the wretched woman 
that she had just heard. 

But the words had been spoken for good or ill ; for ill only it 
seemed to Mary in her agitated uncertainty how to act. 

As she neared the Hall, she saw Robert coming from the direc- 
tion of the stables carrying a little dog in his arms. She knew in 
a moment whose dog it was, and that Robert himself had probably 
gone to the station to meet Florence’s poor little favourite. When 
Robert saw her he beckoned to her to come to him. 

‘ Here is a new case for you, Molly,’ he said. ‘ This poor little 
brute has a broken leg ; I hope you think our half-brother is a fine 
gentleman?* 

Mary grew a little pale as she heard these words. But she 
loved animals with the strange sympathetic love which pervades 
some natures, and makes the world often miserable to them, 
seeing the wrongs and cruelty these dumb creatures are called 
upon needlessly to endure. So now with tender hands she took 
the little injured dog (which was moaning with pain) from Robert’s 
arms, and wrapped it gently in the fur of her cloak. The chilled, 
frightened, miserable little creature seemed to understand he had 
found a true friend. He looked with his deer- like, trustful eyes 
in her face, and ceased his melancholy wail while she carried him 


Mary's Secret, SOj 

to the drawing-room, and made a bed for him in front of the fire 
on her cloak. Then she got him some warm milk, and was 
kneeling trying to make him lap it, when Dr Arthur Humphrey 
came into the room. 

^ Mary heard the footsteps, but concluded it was Robert, and in 
silence Dr Arthur stood looking at her. 

A beautiful woman, on whose clear, pure outlines the fire-light 
flickered ; a tender, gentle woman, with sweet pity on her fair face 
— so he thought as he stood and watched her, envying the little 
maimed brute she tended, and cursing the mad folly that had 
flung her dear love away. 

‘ Do you think, Robert,’ said Mary presently, ‘ that Dr Arthur 
would do anything for the poor little creature when he comes 
I can’t bear the idea of letting those rough men in the stable 
touch it.’ 

‘ Dr Arthur will be very pleased to do what he can,’ said Arthur 
Humphrey from behind, and Mary looked round and started to her 
feet, remembering, her hair was ruffled, and that it was time to 
change her dress. 

‘ I thought it was Robert,’ she said ; ‘ have you heard about this 
poor little thing.?’ (and she pointed to the dog). ‘It is Florence 
Blunt’s — and her husband kicked it, and Florence has sent it to 
Robert.’ 

‘ Humph ! ’ said Dr Arthur, kneeling on the rug and beginning 
to examine the delicate, slender legs of the beautiful little black- 
and-tan. ‘ So that young cub is at his old tricks again, is he .? 
He’ll kick poor Florence before long, I expect.’ 

‘ He is horrid ! ’ said Mary. ‘ How could she marry him V 

‘ She made a grave mistake. Well, her little favourite dog will 
be all right by-and-by, especially as it will have so excellent a nurse. 
I’ll extemporise some splints and set the leg. And Dr Arthur rose 
for the purpose of seeking his splints. 

Just as he passed Mary, she laid a trembling hand for a moment 
on his arm. 

‘ Dr Arthur,’ she said, in a tone of visible anxiety, ‘ I want to 
ask you something. Will — will Mrs Moony ever be well again?’ 

The doctor stopped and looked at her in some surprise. 

‘ What makes you ask ? ’ he said. ‘ Have you seen her lately ? ’ 

* I saw her to-day,’ answered Mary, casting down her eyes. 

‘Well, how did she seem? Not over well, I suppose? No, 

Miss Mary, if you want to know the truth, the poor soul will never 
be well again ; she has an incurable disorder.’ 

Mary gave a long, quivering sigh, and looked up again in Dr 
Arthur’s face. 

‘ Thank you for telling me the truth,’ she said, in a low tone. 
‘ I — I wanted to know.’ 

* You are very good to her ; she often speaks of you ; and now I 
must go to seek my splints, and you must hold the patient while 
I set the leg.’ 

Mary scarcely smiled; she stood there grave and thoughtful, 
thinking what it was right to do. She was standing almost in the 


2o6 


Out of Eden, 

same attitude when the doctor returned. Then she knelt down 
and held little Don while the injured leg was set. Dr Arthur 
could not help looking at her sometimes as she did so ; she knelt 
there so totally free from coquetry, with a far-away look in her 
eyes. Yet she was so gentle, and Don evidently understood that 
everything was going on for the best. He had ceased to moan 
with the touch of Mary’s hand ; his subtle, God-given instinct told 
him that a friend was near. 

When the leg was set, Mary re-made the bed in her fur-lined 
cloak, and Don, worn out with his journey and his pain, soon fell 
asleep. Then Robert came in and Mary went to dress. When 
she returned Robert had some news for her. 

‘Molly,’ he said, ‘will you be frightened to be left? for I have 
had a letter from Howard, and it is absolutely necessary I should 
go up to town on business to-morrow. If you like, I will take you 
with me ? ’ 

‘No, Robert ; but need you really go ?’ she answered, anxiously. 

* I must, my dear. Here’s Arthur, he will look after you.* 

The grave-faced doctor coloured. 

* Of course I will,’ he said. 

Mary did not speak, but all the evening she looked anxious and 
unsettled, so much so that before it was over Robert laid his hand 
on her shoulder. 

‘What’s the matter with you, Molly ?’ he asked. 

‘ I wish you were not going away,’ she said, wistfully. 

‘ My dear, I have no choice. And now I must go and look out 
some papers I want ; so, Humphrey, will you excuse me ? ’ said 
Robert. 

‘ 1 suppose he’ll go and see Florence?’ said Dr Arthur, as soon 
as Robert had disappeared. He fancied he had guessed the cause 
of Mary’s evident uneasiness. 

‘I suppose so,’ she answered. ‘And you really think Mrs 
Moony will die ?’ she asked, a moment later. 

‘ Why, you’ve got this woman on your brain ! ’ said Dr Arthur, 
with a smile. ‘ Yes, I am sure she will die.’ 

Again Mary sighed, and began moving restlessly about the room. 
She was perplexed ; she did not know what to do ; one minute she 
thought she would consult Dr Arthur, and the next she feared the 
consequences. 

‘ You think it quite safe for Robert to go to London ?’ she said, 
presently. 

‘ Do you mean on account of the attractions of Mrs Harry, or 
his health ? ’ asked the doctor, with a laugh. 

‘Don’t — don’t say such things, even in jest!’ cried Mary. 
‘ What can she be to him, the wife of another man ?’ 

‘ Quite right. The wife of a man who kicks her dog, and who 
— well, most likely, will kick her — in fact. Miss Mary — excuse 
me, I can’t call you Miss Blunt yet — but to return to Robert, I 
think it would be as well if you could, to look out a nice wife for 
him.’ 

‘ You are afraid of him !’ said Mary quickly, clasping her hands. 


Mary's Secret. 207 

* I think it’s a dangerous situation,’ answered Dr Arthur. ‘ Here 
are two people, one confessedly very deeply in love not so long 
ago, now thrown together in a strange intimacy. You see she 
turns to him at once for help,’ and he pointed to the dog. ‘With 
what feelings do you think Robert must regard this brutal young 
fellow? What will he do if he sees him ill-treat poor Florence as 
well as her dog? No ; I advise you to get a wife for him, Miss 
Mary ; he was very fond of her. The less he sees of her the 
better, now.’ And the doctor ended with a sigh. 

‘You do not know hini,’ said Mary proudly; ‘he is too good, 
too high-minded.’ 

‘Yes, I know him; he’s a fine fellow, a fellow who would 
willingly wrong neither man nor woman ; but, Miss Mary, it’s 
easy for the best of us to “ trip and fall.” Robert is safest out of 
her way — out of the way of an attractive woman who certainly 
liked him.' 

‘ No ; how could she like him ? ’ said Mary, looking at Dr Arthur 
with some anger. 

‘ Because she married another man ? Do you think if we could 
lift the white veil that hides the heart of half the brides that go to 
the altar, that we would see alone the image there of the man with 
whom they were standing hand-clasped ? Women marry for a 
hundred things besides love — Florence Chester married for rank 
and money. She has lost them, and I do not suppose this loss 
has particularly endeared her lord to her.’ 

‘ Do not speak thus ; I hate to hear you.’ 

‘ Well, forgive me, then ; only you are but a girl, you know, a 
country girl, thank God, and I am — well, 1 suppose, getting an 
old man.’ 

‘ How can you be so foolish ; you know you are not an old man ; 
but I hate to hear you talk like a cynical, worldly man.’ 

‘ A cynical, worldly man ! ’ said Robert, returning at this moment 
to the drawing-room, with his papers in his hand, and overhearing 
Mary’s words. ‘ May I ask, madam, to whom you are employing 
bad language ? ’ 

Mary laughed. 

‘ I was scolding Dr Arthur,’ she said. 

‘ She has been calling me names — bad names,’ said Dr Arthur, 
also with a laugh ; ‘ among them a cynic ; a cynic being described 
in my dictionary as one of the snarling sect ; therefore I naturally 
feel exceedingly irate that my awkward attempts at pleasantry 
should be snubbed in this fashion.’ 

‘ Pleasantry ! ’ said Mary. 

Dr Arthur shrugged his shoulders. 

‘ A man can but do his best, you know,’ he said ; and then 
Robert laid a friendly hand on Dr Arthur’s shoulder. 

‘Come, old fellow, downstairs, and have a smoke,’ he said. 
‘Will you come, Molly?’ 

But Mary declined ; she bade her brother and Dr Arthur good- 
night, and then went slowly to her own room. She would have 
time to think now, she told herself. But when she was alone she 


2 o 8 Out of Eden, 

could no more decide what to do with her strange dark secret than 
when she had been with her brother and his friend. She walked 
backwards and forwards with clasped hands and knitted brows. 
She went to the window and looked out on the misty lake ; on its 
broad breast a silvered haze was resting, for a cold, wintry moon 
was shining above. Long Mary stood there ; she took off her dress, 
she unbound her hair, and as its soft, pale gold tints fell on her 
white neck she made a lovely picture. Then suddenly she clasped 
her hands and fell upon her knees. 

‘ Father,’ she prayed, with uplifted eyes, ‘ I know not what to 
do ; Thou help me ; Thou guide me. I am weak and in great 
trouble. Oh, direct me to do right.’ 

Then she bowed her head, murmuring still prayers for help. 
The moonbeams fell on her as she prayed ; it was a fair, still 
scene. The kneeling woman with her face hidden in her white, 
bare arms, the calm lake below, the cold white moon above. Yet 
in Mary’s pure breast lay the shadow of a crime — a crime com- 
mitted on this very spot, the consequences of which were still 
working their evil way. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE HOUSE IN CHAPEL STREET. 

Two days later, about five o’clock in the afternoon, Robert was 
driving in a hansom up Park Lane on his way to call on Florence 
in Chapel Street. As he neared the house, which was but a few 
doors down the street, he passed Harry Blunt, who apparently had 
just left the house. Robert bent forward and saw Harry call a cab 
with a strong sense of relief in his mind, for Robert felt that to 
keep on fairly friendly terms with Harry it was best to keep out of 
his way. 

So he drove to number — Chapel Street, and asked if Mrs Harry 
Blunt were at home. Yes, Mrs Blunt was within, the young foot- 
man told him, and accordingly Robert was ushered upstairs, and 
entered the pretty, fantastic little drawing-room, where Florence 
and Bessie Chester were sitting by the fire. 

‘ Robert ! ’ cried Florence, starting to her feet when she heard his 
name. ‘ Whoever expected to see you ? I am very pleased,’ and 
she held out her hand. 

‘ I came up to town on business,’ said Robert, in his deep ringing 
tones, ‘ and you see I have come to see you.’ 

‘ Of course you came to see me,’ answered Florence ; ‘ where will 
you sit t Here is Bessie.’ 

Robert shook hands with Bessie, and then looked round. 

‘Where can I sit.?’ he said, with a smile. ‘It seems to me 
you are too ornamental here for a big awkward man to be able to 
dispose of himself.’ 

‘ Is it not an absurd little room ? Bessie, my dear, move some of 


The House in Chapel Street, 209 

the crockery, so that Robert may be able to wedge himself in!* 
laughed Florence, and after an ornamental table had been dis- 
placed, Robert found a seat by the fire, between the two sisters. 

It was indeed a most fanciful little room. The house belonged 
to a French lady, and she had furnished it in the most ornate style, 
but what principally struck you was the extraordinary number of 
fans ; fans on the walls of enormous size, fans of every size and 
every possible colour, in every direction. The room was a collec- 
tion, in fact, of fans, and the walls were hung with a flower- 
patterned cretonne, and cretonne was drawn fluted over the ceil- 
ing to a mirror in the centre, giving the whole a tent-like and 
somewhat Eastern effect. This little room opened into a yet 
smaller one, and heavy curtains of cretonne alone divided the two. 
Robert looked round amused and astonished. 

‘Well, this is a funny little place,’ he said. ‘ It wouldn’t do to be 
unsteady on your feet here.’ 

‘ Oh, Harry has smashed lots of things already,’ said Bessie. 
‘We always try to keep him downstairs.’ 

‘ Your little favourite is doing very well, Florence,’ said Robert, 
looking at her, and with involuntary pity and sympathy in his 
tone. ‘ Arthur Humphrey set the leg, and Mary nurses it with 
great devotion ; she has it to sleep in her room.’ 

‘And the leg was broken.?’ said Florence, with a sort of gasp. 

‘ Yes ; did you not know .? ’ 

‘ He said it was not,’ answered Florence, rising indignantly. 

‘ Harry said it was not. He kicked it brutally, just because it got 
in his way when he was in one of his rages. Poor little Don ! poor 
little Don ! ’ 

‘ It will be all right now, don’t distress yourself about it, Flor- 
ence. I had a letter from Mary this morning and she says it is 
going on splendidly. I expect she won’t part with it ; you must let 
it stay on at Weirmere.’ 

‘ Don’t tell him,’ said Florence, bitterly, ‘ where it is. I told a 
lie about it ; I knew you would take it in, Robert.’ And once more 
Florence sat down by the fire. 

‘ Let us not talk of it,’ said Bessie ; ‘ it made Florence very ill ; 
let us talk of something else. Tell us how all the good people 
about Weirmere are. Sir Robert.’ 

‘ All very well, I think,’ answered Robert, but he was not looking 
at Bessie as he spoke, but at the graceful bowed head of Florence, 
who had covered her face, and a moment later she gave a sob. 

‘ I can’t help it, Robert I ’ she said, piteously ; ‘ I would not have 
minded so much if he had kicked me ; but poor little Don, to break 
his little tiny leg — ’ 

‘ It will be all right, Florence,’ said Robert kindly. 

‘ I never was so angry 1 ’ said Florence passionately ; ‘ I — I — told 
him the truth — told him what I thought.’ 

‘ Sir Robert will have some tea, Florence,’ said Bessie sooth- 
ingly ; ‘ don’t vex yourself about it any more, dear. It is quite 
safe with Sir Robert ’ (and Bessie looked smilingly at Robert) ; ‘ it 
will be far happier at Weirmere with the lovely grounds to play in,’ 

0 


210 


Out of Eden. 

‘ Yes, far happier,’ said Robert, trying to speak cheerfully ; ‘ and 
now tell me all the news. How do you like living in London, Miss 
Bessie ? ’ 

‘ Very, very much ; you see we are close to the Park — ^just the 
road to cross. I hope you will come up for the season. Sir 
Robert ? ’ 

* Robert laughed. 

‘ I daresay I shall be often up,’ he said ; ‘you must instruct me. 
Miss Bessie, in the ways of fashionable life.’ 

Bessie laughed too, and modestly cast down her eyes. Oh ! if 
Robert would only admire her, she thought, then it would be all 
right. So she looked at him, and smiled and chatted, and Flor- 
ence said nothing. She sat there screening her face with her fan, 
her heart full of bitter thoughts. She had had a terrible quarrel 
with her husband after he had kicked her little dog. 

‘ I hate you ! ’ she had told him, standing before him pale and 
quivering. And they had scarcely spoken to each other since. 

And now while Robert was sitting there Harry Blunt walked un- 
expectedly into the drawing-room. 

‘ I say, Florence,’ he began, in his insolent, overbearing way, not 
seeing who was there in the semi-darkness, ‘ I’ve asked a fellow 
to dinner, Fitzjames, an old chum of mine, so you must look up 
your cook and tell her not to send us any more such beastly soup 
as we had yesterday.’ 

‘ Here is your half-brother. Sir Robert,’ said Florence, rising 
nervously. And Robert also rose as she spoke, while Harry Blunt 
gave a visible start. 

‘ Oh ! ’ he said ; he paused a moment, and then advanced and 
held out his hand. 

‘ So you are up in town, are you ?’ he said. 

‘Yes,’ said Robert, putting his cold hand in Harry’s hot one. 

‘ Glad to see you ; hadn’t you better stay dinner too. There’s a 
fellow coming — Fitzjames, of the Eleventh — an old school chum of 
mine,’ blurted out Harry. 

But Robert gravely but courteously declined. 

‘ I have an engagement,’ he said ; ‘ thank you ; but I was just go- 
ing to ask Florence and Miss Bessie to lunch with me to-morrow 
at the St James’s Hotel, where I am staying, and then go out 
shopping with me in the afternoon, as I want Horence to help me 
to choose a present for Mary, and I shall be very happy if you will 
come to lunch too?’ And Robert looked at Harry. 

‘Oh, how delightful !’ said Bessie, clapping her hands in real 
or affected glee ; ‘ there is nothing I love so much as shopping ; 
do come, Harry, also,’ she added, willing to conciliate her brother- 
in-law. 

‘ I’ll be very glad to go to lunch,’ answered Harry, in his thick 
voice ; ‘ but you must excuse me the shopping business ; I hate 
going about with a lot of women staring at everything, and hand- 
ling everything, but, by Jove ! being mean .enough when they’ve got 
to pay.’ 

Bessie shrugged h^r shoplders ^nd looked playfully at Robert. 


2II 


The House in Chapel Street. 

‘ You see what a good character he gives us,* she said ; ‘ well, 
never mind, come to lunch, Harry ; it’s sure to be a jolly one ; ’ and 
again Bessie looked at Robert. 

^ Nevertheless, Harry did not go. He made an excuse when the 
time came, for both these men felt they were better apart. It was 
well to be on apparently friendly terms, but friendly terms could 
not really be between them. Harry, indeed, hated Robert with a 
vindictive, dull hatred, that found expression in oaths and curses 
whenever he chanced to be alone with his wife. But he was not 
quite such a fool as to quarrel with his bread and butter. He was 
still the natural heir to Weirmere if Robert did not will the property 
away, as it was not entailed, and then his present income was 
entirely dependent on Robert, so, though he might growl and curse 
behind his back, he was civil enough when his half-brother was 
present. Thus he ordered Florence and Bessie to go and have 
lunch with him, and yet he was jealous of Florence in his stupid, 
brutish way. 

‘ If he would only die,’ he thought, thinking of Robert, as he 
handed the sisters into a cab, to be driven to Robert’s hotel. ‘ Yes, 
that would make it all right, if he would only die.’ 

But he did not say this. 

‘ Make a civil excuse to the fellow,’ he said. ‘ I have got a 
beastly headache ; you can tell him so.’ 

‘ Very well,’ said Florence, and she gave the message as she got 
it, and Robert received it in silence. 

But his absence was an inexpressible relief to them all. Flor- 
ence grew bright, lively, and gracious, and Robert sunned himself 
in her smiles. It was like the old days, and Bessie felt she was 
almost forgotten. 

‘ What a pity he does not take a fancy to me,’ she thought, philo- 
sophically, as she looked from Robert to Florence. ‘ I don’t think 
it kind of Flo to flirt with him as she does ; she might give me a 
chance now.’ 

But Florence was not flirting with Robert ; she was sitting 
there looking at him, wondering at her own mad folly. Oh ! what 
a fair lot she had flung away— a true man’s true love— the greatest 
gift of God, the highest crown of womanhood, and it had been 
hers, and she had lost it. 

She thought what her life had been of late — its shame and de- 
gradation — no help, no comfort at home, a selfish, insolent, brutal 
master; for this she had given up all that was holy, sweet, 
and good. But what was the use of thinking of a wrecked life ! 
She began to laugh and to smile ; she was the life of the little 
party with her pretty sallies, and her fresh, bright wit. Robert 
looking at her wondered, and yet his heart drew closer to her. 

‘ No wonder I loved her,’ he thought, and his face grew dark 
and grave. 

But Florence would not have it so. 

‘ Come, you lazy man,’ she said, ‘ if we have to shop in daylight 
we must start now. Where do you mean to go ?’ 

‘ I want to buy a present for Mary, a set of ornaments and a very 


212 


Out of Eden* 

smart dress, and I am no judge of fine things, so I want you to 
choose them for me, Florence,’ he answered. 

They went out together after this, and went to a jeweller’s, and 
after changing their minds at least a dozen times, they at last 
decided on a very beautiful set of gold ornaments with small 
diamond stars. 

• ‘ And now I want to buy you both something,’ said Robert to the 
sisters ; ‘ will you choose anything you like 

‘ I like nothing,’ said Florence, in a very decided tone ; ‘ don’t 
ask me to take anything,’ she added, in a Icwer tone, ‘ it will only 
annoy me if you do.’ 

Robert said nothing more, but Bessie was without difficulty per- 
suaded to accept a very handsome gold bracelet. 

‘ I may send you some flowers, may I not ? ’ said Robert to 
Florence, as they were leaving the jeweller’s shop ; but Florence 
gently shook her head. 

They went to several shops after this, and then they went back 
to the hotel for tea. It was quite dusk now, a misty winter evening, 
and Florence sat by the hotel window and amused herself by 
looking down on the passers-by. 

‘ “ Each bearing his burden of sorrow,” ’ she quoted, glancing up 
with her dark eyes in Robert’s face, who was standing beside her. 

‘ It’s a heavy load you give them all, Florence, then,’ he an- 
swered, and he sighed. 

‘ Robert, when you were very ill,’ she said the next minute, ‘ how 
did you feel ? Did you feel afraid to die ? Did you think you 
would die?’ 

‘ I thought nothing, I believe ; I had a stupefied feeling of intense 
misery. I suppose I nearly died.’ 

‘You were dreadfully, dreadfully ill. The night I went down to 
see you, they thought all hope was gone.’ 

‘The night you went down to see me?’ repeated Robert, in a 
tone of real surprise. Did you come down to see me, Florence ? ’ 

A blush stole over Florence’s mobile face. 

‘Did Mary never tell you?’ she said, in a low tone, and her 
eyes fell. ‘ I — I — heard that day for the first time you were very 
ill, and I wrote to Mary, and — and — she wrote back ; but perhaps 
it is better to forget all this.’ 

‘ No, no,’ said Robert quickly ; ‘tell me ; I want to hear. And 
Mary wrote to you, you say ?’ 

‘ Yes ; and I thought I would like to go down. I kept it a secret 
at the Hall. I ran all the way, and I took you some flowers, 
Robert.’ 

‘ And Mary never told me,’ said Robert, angrily and sharply ; 
‘ never hinted even a word.’ 

‘ Hush ! do not blame Mary,’ answered Florence, looking up. 

* She said something to me. I cannot tell you all, Robert ; but 
what she said was too late. I was married to Harry then, and I 
told her, and went away.’ 

Not another word was said. Below was the stir and the noise 
of the crowded street, but there seemed to be suddenly a great still- 


The House in Chapel Street. 213 

ness in the room, and Bessie, who was looking out of another 
window, glanced round and wondered at the silence. But Robert 
and Florence had forgotten Bessie — they had forgotten everything 
but that they were near each other, and love, passionate, ‘ strong 
as death,’ swept over Robert’s heart with overwhelming force. 

‘ I am dying for my tea,’ at last said Bessie, after having yawned 
audibly, and moved her chair impatiently, and her voice broke the 
spell of the dream of sweet madness in which for a few moments 
Robert had lost himself. It recalled him to his sober senses ; re- 
called reality — he was Robert Blunt, Florence was the wife of 
another man, and Bessie was asking for her tea. He gave a quick, 
impatient sigh, and then spoke a word or two in a low tone to 
Florence. 

‘ I will come and see you to-morrow,’ he said ; * and after that I, 
too, little woman, will go away.’ 

‘ The tea will be quite cold, Flo, unless we have it now,’ con- 
tinued Bessie, in an injured voice, and Florence rose, went to the 
table, and began pouring out the tea, and talking of the shops and 
Mary’s dresses. 

It is a blessing, is it not, that we poor mortals are forced to eat 
and drink at stated periods, even though our hearts be bursting 
with love, jealousy, rage, or despair ? The fragile creatures of the 
poet’s dreams, the fairies, the naiads, have all seemingly died out 
now, for lack, perchance, in their hours of emotion, of this vulgar 
sustenance which we are obliged to swallow and digest ! A sip 
from the petal of a flower, the dew on a grassy blade silvered by 
a moonbeam, has evidently not been able to support them in the 
same fashion as our heavy and varied viands to us. Here was 
Robert, his heart full of a strong deep feeling he was unable to 
overcome, yet, nevertheless forced to drink a cup of tea and eat 
bread and butter ; and no doubt it did him good ! 

The tea certainly did Florence good ; it enabled her to talk 
calmly and pleasantly, to walk quietly back to Chapel Street by the 
side of her sister and her old lover, and it helped her to bear the 
coarse abuse which was showered on her by her husband as soon 
as she reached the miserable spot which she now called ho7ne. 

‘ What the do you mean by staying all this time pottering 

about with that fellow.?’ cried Harry Blunt, starting up from a 
couch in the drawing-room in which he was lying when the sisters 
entered that room. 

‘ We went back to the hotel to tea,’ answered Florence, calmly 
enough, 

‘ Tea ! Why did you not come here for tea ? I’m not going to 
be neglected in this manner — do you hear? I wo7tH!'‘ roared 
Harry. But Florence made no answer ; she went upstairs to take 
off her bonnet and cloak, and sat wearily down and thought of 
Robert Blunt, and of the long miserable future that lay before her. 

Yet she had to come down to dinner, and to swallow her soup 
and her fish, and trifle with a few other eatables, lest Harry should 
swear at her for losing her appetite. With death or misery in the 


214 Out of Eden, 

house we must still dine, and it is well for us that it is so. Florence 
would have been more miserable sitting upstairs alone, cold and 
really hungry, though she now felt that her food was choking her. 

It was a sort of relief, too, when after dinner a friend of Harry’s 
came in, and Florence was forced to smile just as she had been 
forced to eat. This gentleman indeed went away quite satisfied in 
hi.s mind that Florence was a happy young wife, and a pretty house 
in Chapel Street a little Eden where dwelt two lovers. He hinted 
something of this, but Florence laughingly corrected him. 

‘ There is no such place in the world,’ she said. ‘We all live 
out of Eden, most of us quite out of sight of the happy garden.’ 
And for a moment she sighed. 

‘ I feel in sight of it,’ said the young soldier to whom she was 
speaking, ‘when I am permitted to sit in your drawing-room.’ 

Florence shrugged her pretty shoulders. 

‘No one knows a place well,’ she said, ‘until they live in it, 
behind the scenes — ’ 

‘ You little goose,’ interrupted Harry, with a laugh ; ‘fancy you 
talking to Fitzjames of behind the scenes; why, he’d been^ often 
behind the scenes when you were in baby clothes.’ 

‘ Harry, you see, is very literal,’ said Florence, with her rippling 
smile. ‘However, a gentleman of your great experience will 
understand what I mean.’ 

‘ Oh, Fitzjames has had plenty of experience,’ said Harry, and 
Fitzjames smiled and stroked his moustaches, not unwilling to 
admit that ‘ experience had made him sage.’ 

But the talk and the laughter, hollow though it might be, made 
the evening pass more quickly, and to a certain extent made 
Florence forget the degrading misery of her life. She parted with 
their visitor with a jest on her lips, and when Harry returned to 
the drawing-room, after seeing him out, he asked her what all the 
nonsense was about. 

‘The bosh you were talking to Fitzjames about living out of 
Eden ?’ he condescended to explain. 

‘ I meant the world,’ she answered. ‘ Our first parents, you . 
know, were sent out of Eden into the world, and none of us have 
ever gone back. There is no Eden in the world.’ 

‘ What bosh 1 * said the candid Harry, and Florence laughed 
softly, and turned away. 

But she told Robert of the conversation when he called on the 
following afternoon to bid her good-bye. 

‘ Don’t we get up well,’ she said, half gaily, half sadly, * when the 
outside audience believes this to be a bower of bliss ? There was 
a man here last night, a Captain Fitzjames, a friend of Harry’s, 
who said my drawing-room reminded him of Eden.’ 

‘ And what did you say, Florence ? ’ answered Robert, looking at 
her gravely. 

‘I said he was* very much mistaken,’ said Florence, smiling; 

* that Eden was quite out of fashion, and a great deal of “ bosh,” 
as Harry, with more truth than politeness, described the conversa- 
tion. But it shows, it shows, Robert ! Don’t we all act our parts 


The House in Chapel Street. 2 1 5 

well when the curtain is up ? We keep the quarrels and all un- 
pleasant things for those with whom we are most closely connected ; 
a man does not swear at his friend, but at his wife.’ 

‘ I hope there are some men who would not.’ 

‘ Yes, some,’ said Florence ; ‘ my experience is small but bitter ; 
but why talk of it ? Are you really going away to-day, Robert — 
really, really ? ’ 

‘ I really am.’ 

‘ But you’ll come back ? When will you come back V 

‘ Not until Mary comes with me in the spring, I think,’ said 
Robert, gravely, casting down his eyes. 

‘ Not till the spring ! All that long, long time ? ’ 

‘ What good can I do by coming, Florence ? It does not make 
me happier to see you ; it cannot make you happier to see me.’ 

‘ I think it does ; yes, I think it does,’ she answered, clasping 
her hands. 

They were quite alone ; outside was the dusky city twilight, 
inside but the flickering firelight. He stood there, leaning on the 
bedizened mantelpiece near her, for she was sitting on a low seat 
with her little feet resting on the fender, and holding a fanciful fan 
in one of her slim white hands. But as she spoke she laid her fan 
upon her lap and clasped her hands. 

‘ How can it make you happier.?’ he said, in a low tone. 

For a moment or two she made no answer; then she started 
quickly up. 

‘ Perhaps not,’ she said ; ‘ well — you must give my love to Mary.’ 

‘ But I am not going quite yet,’ said Robert, his eyes following 
her restless footsteps, for she began to move about the little room ; 
to take up one pretty thing, and then to take up another. ‘ I have 
got one or two things to say to you, Florence, before I go away — 
about Miss Bessie to begin with ; of course, if Harry Blunt objects 
to have her here — ’ 

‘ Oh, they patched up a kind of peace,’ interrupted Florence ; 
‘she told me of the generous things you had said, but for the 
present Harry has consented for her to go on living here.’ 

‘Well, if he changes his mind, you know, she knows to whom to 
apply — that was one thing I had to say ; another is — Florence, I 
want to give you a Christmas box — I brought them up for you ; I 
wish you to take them — the diamond^ bracelets you gave back to 
me.’ 

‘ I cannot, Robert,’ said Florence, looking round ; ‘ I really 
cannot.’ 

‘ Take one, at all events.* 

Florence came back to her seat by the fire, and took up her fan. 

‘ I thank you very much,’ she said, and she held out her hand 
and took his, ‘ very, very much ; but I would much rather not take 
any finery — I — I — want you to think a little better of me.’ 

‘ I — have no right to judge you,’ he said, in a broken voice, and 
he turned away his head greatly agitated ; ‘ we both make a 
mistake ; a terrible mistake — but — but— now — ’ 

‘ Pon’t think me quite bad,’ said Florence, trying to smile. 


2i6 


Out of Eden. 

‘ I do not, my poor girl, I do not ! I pity you from my very 
heart ! ’ cried Robert impetuously. 

‘ I have but got what I deserved,’ said Florence, in a low tone. 
‘ I try to tell myself this, and to bear it. It’s not a happy life, 
Robert.’ And she looked with a very sad smile up into Robert’s 
face. 

‘ I know,’ he said, deeply moved. ‘ A hundred times a day I 
think of you, Florence ; but it’s better for me to go away. Yes, it’s 
better for us both that I should go.’ 

‘ Well, perhaps,’ said Florence gently. 

‘ And do me this favour, Florence ; take one of these bracelets. 
Come, Florence, do me this favour.’ 

He stood there, tall, handsome, grave, holding one of the bracelets 
in his hands, and Florence held one of her blue-veined wrists, and 
her tremulous lips uttered no word, while Robert clasped the heavy 
bracelet round it. 

‘ Thank you for taking it,’ he said. ‘ And now good-bye ; do not 
quite forget me, Florence.’ 

‘ I never forget you,’ answered Florence, and sad and silent for a 
moment or two they stood with clasped hands, and then Robert, 
pale, and deeply moved, left her ; and Florence fell weeping on 
her knees, pressing her lips on the sparkling band upon her arm. 

‘ Some day it may give me bread,’ she said ; ‘ he little thought 
that some day it may give me bread.’ 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

AN INVITATION. 

Christmas came and went, and then the heavily-laden old year 
died out, and the new untried one dawned. At Weirmere Hall 
these days were spent as most of us spend them. They must bring 
solemn thoughts to all but the most thoughtless. Another year of 
our allotted space gone, and what have we done with it ? Ill, or 
good ? — we may be sure one or the other weighs heaviest in the 
balance. 

To the Blunts at Weirmere the past year had brought great 
changes. The old mistress had passed away ; her erect familiar 
form but a memory ; and then the strangest change of all — the 
dishonoured dead recalled from her forgotten city grave to have 
her pale ghost crowned with honour. The late Sir Henry’s first 
wife, the once beautiful Mary Fletcher, was now recognised as 
Lady Blunt, the mother of the present owner of the estates. Sir 
Robert Blunt, and the well-born scattered around Weirmere had 
begun to consider the propriety of receiving the new man (Sir 
Robert) into their stately circles. 

Perhaps ten miles distant from Weirmere lives the greatest mag- 
nate of the county. Lord Moreland. He had married a duke’s 
daughter, a plain but pleasant woman, and in wealth, birth 


An Invitation, 217 

and position he held the highest place. When, therefore, Lord 
Moreland’s coronetted carriage was one day, just about Christ- 
mas time, seen leaving the gates of Weirmere with the ladies 
inside, it was felt by the neighbours, who had long known Robert, 
that he had indeed risen above them in the social scale, and that 
the pleasant days of their intimacy were probably very near at a 
close. 

We are commanded not to ‘mind men of high estate yet no 
command by people of virtue is so entirely disregarded. The 
Bohemians (literary especially) are supposed to look with proud 
disdain at the ermined head-gear, but, behold, when Lord So-and-so 
stretches out his hand, does the veriest Bohemian amongst us 
refuse to take it, or decline to sit at the lordly table ? Do we not 
rather mention mildly in conversation that we dined with Lord 
So-and-so on such a day, and had a very good dinner, though per- 
haps in reality it was only an indifferent one t 

We laugh at ourselves, but we do it, and we also tell ourselves 
with some truth that the high-born and well-bred are very pleasant 
company, and that their knowledge flows glibly from their polished 
tongues, and that they have not a certain trying way of reminding 
us of our little shortcomings (monetary or otherwise) which is not 
uncommon among us humbler people. 

Be this as it may, this visit of Lady Moreland and her daughter 
to Mary and Robert Blunt at Weirmere created quite a sensation 
among their old neighbours. Mr Thirlwell was walking along the 
road with a plaister in his coat-pocket, and a box of pills or two, and 
his heart full of warm and tender aspirations. He paused, he gazed 
at Weirmere Hall, where ‘ dwelt the lady of his love ; ’ but, as he 
gazed, down the steep green hill in front rolled the well-appointed 
carriage from Wenman Castle, Lord Moreland’s place, — for Mr 
Thirlwell knew it well, being in the habit of occasionally attending 
the servants. He opened his eyes wide, and then he felt a sudden 
coldness creep over him ; ‘ a dampness,’ he afterwards declared. 
He was so overcome by the sight that he sat down on a gate near, 
balancing himself with some difficulty, and apostrophised cruel 
fortune. 

‘ She is passing away from me,’ he said ; ‘ the chariot wheels of 
yon bloated aristocrats tell me so— this lovely woman ; and I hear 
Robert h ■ settled fifteen thousand pounds on her, and she might 
have been mine but for fate ! What is fate ? A whirligig, for it 
turns us all round.’ 

Mr Thirlwell’s patients were waiting for their plaisters and their 
pills ; the world had to go on, Mr Thirlwell felt, though his heart 
might be seared or broken. He was damp, he was chill ; he felt a 
drop of whisky would revive him, and so his heavy footsteps strayed 
in the direction of the ‘Welcome Rose,’ where so often before he 
had slaked his thirst. 

His old friend, the comely nymph at the bar, received him with 
pleasure, though with a certain reserve of manner, as Mr Thirlwell 
had been quite a stranger of late. 

‘ Oh, you are alive ?’ she said. 


2i8 


Out of Eden. 

‘ I am, my dear ; but dissolution is imminent unless you give me 
a drop of drink,’ he answered. ‘ Give me of your best,’ he added, 
‘ for I feel,’ and he struck his waistcoat in front, ‘ as if everything 
were too much for me.’ 

As he sipped his whisky he felt a little better ; after all, what were 
earls and countesses but men and women 1 They had their aches 
and pains too, Mr Thirlwell thought, with grim satisfaction. Mary 
might be above their venal attentions ; he had loved her when she 
was poor and unknown ; perhaps she might love him now if he 
spoke up like a man, though her circumstances had so greatly 
changed. 

By the time he had finished his whisky, he determined to speak 
up like a man. But the whisky that gave him courage also loosened 
his tongue. 

‘ Our friends at the Hall,’ he said to the barmaid, ‘ have had 
some swells visiting them to-day. I met the Wenman carriage 
leaving the grounds, and the countess was inside. Such is life ! ’ 
he continued, theatrically ; ‘ the truth in masquerade, as Don Juan 
has it. You don’t know who Juan was, my dear ? Well, he was 
a naughty young man, who would have come and drunk whisky, I 
am sure, from your fair hands, if he had lived in these parts, and 
he called “ a lie the truth in masquerade,” and what is life but a 
cheat and a lie ? ’ 

‘ Dear me, doctor, you are that bitter ! ’ said the barmaid, with a 
laugh. 

‘ Am I ?’ said Mr Thirlwell, not displeased. ‘’Tislife has made 
me so, then — I am thinking of Wenman carriage. For years 
Robert Fletcher and his sister lived here ; did the Wenman 
carriage ever roll its stately proportions to their doors before ? 
No, my dear, it rolls not to see them, but the possessors of 
property ; it would have rolled to see poor Harry and Flo Chester 
if they had been the possessors— they are not, so they hear not the 
sound of the chariot ! ’ 

‘ Why, you are quite poetical, doctor ! ’ 

‘ I have a vein,’ said Thirlwell, ‘ it runs in me, and sometimes, as 
on this occasion, my dear, it breaks forth. But, as a rule, I’m 
prose ; pills are prose, plaisters are prose : and that reminds me 
that my patients are waiting, and so I must be off — but do not for- 
get me, I will return.’ 

The pretty barmaid neither forgot the doctor nor his news. She 
told all her customers, one after the other, that the Countess of 
Moreland had been to call on Miss Blunt, ‘ Miss Fletcher that was, 
you know,’ she said, and all her customers went home and told their 
wives and families. Mr Thirlwell also went home and told Mrs 
Humphrey and Miss Tomkins, and Mrs Humphrey and Miss 
Tomkins turned absolutely pale. 

‘ It’s like a dream,’ said gentle sister Ann. 

‘It takes away my breath,’ said Mrs Humphrey; ‘well may 
people say money is everything— for years 1 have been here — 
our father was a post captain in the Royal Navy, and mother was 
a Lansdowne.’ 


A n Invitation, 219 

‘Connected with the Lansdownes, dear/ gently corrected sister 
Ann. 

‘ Connected with the Lansdownes/ continued Mrs Humphrey, 
injured by her sister’s interruption ; ‘but Lady Moreland has never 
called on me. I have felt it ; I own I have felt it, and now to hear 
this? 

‘ Well, dear, it’s very well we called/ said sister Ann, ‘ since 
evidently all the great people are going to take her up ; and, in- 
deed, she’s a sweet young woman, and her face is as fresh as a 
flower.’ 

While their old neighbours were all thus talking of them, Robert 
and Mary lived on happily unconscious of the gossip. Robert 
had returned from town, looking anything but improved by his 
visit. He was graver, and Mary had never seen him so silent and 
reserved. 

‘ And how is Florence ?’ she asked. 

‘ She seemed very well/ he answered, and that was all ; but 
Mary noticed that his first question was after the welfare of the 
poor little maimed dog Florence had confided to his care. 

Mary was naturally delighted with the beautiful gifts he had 
brought her. 

‘ You extravagant boy ! ’ she said, ‘ fancy me in such fine things.’ 

Robert laughed good-naturedly, but it was not the old, hearty 
laugh Mary had loved to hear. Yet, as Christmas Day approached, 
he proposed that they should invite Arthur Humphrey, his mother, 
and aunt to dine with them. 

‘ It’s too soon after poor Lady Blunt’s death to have any party/ 
he said, ‘ but it would be dreary just us two dining alone together 
on Christmas Day, so will you go up, Molly, and ask the doctor 
and his people ? ’ 

‘ The much-talked-of visit of Lady Moreland happened two 
days before Mary went up to Lansdowne Lodge to invite their pro- 
posed guests, and had the old ladies been invited to heaven they 
could not have received the invitation and accepted it with greater 
gratification. 

‘ It’s so good of you/ twittered sister Ann, thinking anxiously of 
her dress ; ‘ so you had some great people visiting you the other 
day we hear — Lady Moreland ? ’ 

‘ Lord Moreland has known my brother slightly for some time in 
business,’ answered Mary calmly. ‘ I suppose that is the reason 
she called.’ 

‘ It is very gratifying/ said Mrs Humphrey, still feeling very sore 
that she had not been gratified after the same fashion. 

Mary only smiled; she knew very well that the old ladies 
thought a great deal more of her because Lady Moreland had 
called upon her, and she was not sorry that Arthur Humphrey’s 
mother and aunt should think well of her. But Mary was too 
proud herself to care to be taken up by a great lady. 

‘ Pride is my besetting sin, I am afraid,’ she told Arthur Hum- 
phrey one day. 

‘ It’s a very bad one,’ he answered, smiling a little grimly, for he 


220 


Out of Eden, 

al.'o suffered from this infirmity. But his pride and his mother’s 
were \’ery difiercnt ; he was too wise a man to care whether Lady 
Moreland or any other lady of her rank called upon his mother, 
knowing very well that they would only call as an act of conde- 
scension, and that the social distance between a countess and a 
doctor’s mother was too wide to be crossed with any pleasure, 
either by the great lady or the doctor’s mother. 

However, to go back to Mary and the old ladies, the upshot of 
her visit was that they agreed to dine at Weirmere Hall on Christ- 
mas Day. 

‘ There is no party, remember,’ said Mary. ‘ Robert would have 
no party so soon after poor Lady Blunt’s death ; but he will be very 
pleased indeed to see you and — his friend. Dr Arthur.’ 

Mary had scarcely left the house, amid profusions of compliments 
from Mrs Humphrey and sister Ann, when she encountered Mr 
Thirlwell returning to it. She stopped with a smile and held out 
her hand, and the poor young man, almost overcome with emotion, 
put his red gloveless hand into hers. 

‘ I hope you are very well said Mary, good-naturedly. 

‘ As well as can be expected,’ blurted out poor Thirlwell, blushing 
until his warmly-coloured hair and whiskers looked quite pale and 
cold in contrast to his burning skin. ‘ And how are you } But I 
need not ask you ; you only get more charming.’ 

‘ Thank you,’ said Mary, smiling. ‘ I have just been calling at 
your place,’ she continued ; ‘ Robert wants Mrs Humphrey, and 
Miss Tomkins, and the doctor to dine with us on Christmas Day ; 
and, by-the-bye, Mr Thirlwell, are you engaged for that day, be- 
cause, if you are not, of course you must not dine alone, as they 
are all coming, you must dine with us too ? ’ 

Mr Thirlwell was almost too delighted to speak. He tore his 
hat off again with his red hand, and made his best bow. 

‘ I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness,’ he stammered 
out. ‘ I know our spheres are changed. Miss Mary ; you have gone 
up ; I have stuck. That is the truth, but that does not change my 
’art — my ’art can’t change ; spheres may change, but spheres are 
not ’arts — spheres are only the outward clothing as it were — the 
“ guinea’s stamp, the man’s the gold for a’ that !”’ 

‘Nay, Mr Thirlwell,’ laughed Mary, ‘if you take to quoting 
poetry — ’ 

‘You inspire me, Miss Mary. Beauty always inspires me. I 
am nothing, that is, to speak of, but I’m a man ! A poor one, I 
admit. My prospects are only so-so ; but what are prospects in 
comparison to — ’ 

And Mr Thirlwell came to a sudden pause. 

‘ Well, I must say good-bye,’ said Mary. ‘ If you have no other 
engagement, I am sure my brother will be pleased to see you on 
Christmas Day.’ 

And Mary nodded good-naturedly and walked on, leaving Mr 
Thirlwell torn between hope and fear. 

‘ Did I say too much ?’ he reflected. ‘ I certainly hinted ; yes, I 
hinted— was my hint too strong 1 However,’ and he pulled him- 


221 


All Invitation, 

self together and held his head high, ‘she has asked me for Christ- 
mas, and I will go. I will get a new suit ; a waistcoat at any rate, 
for the old one pinches a bit, and I’ll show ’em.’ 

Armed with this manly resolution, he walked into the house de- 
termined to let its inhabitants see he was someone. He went down 
to dinner with his reddish hair brushed and oiled into mahogany 
darkness. He was affable ; he smiled on Miss Ann, and asked 
the old lady patronisingly if she had been out for a walk. 

‘ No,’ replied Miss Ann, ‘ we have had a visitor here, Mr Thirl- 
well — a lady you admire very much.’ 

‘ I admire all ladies, Miss Tomkins,’ replied the aspiring young 
doctor. 

‘ But this was an especial lady — Miss Mary Blunt ; I know you 
think her very handsome.’ 

‘ I do,’ answered Thirlwell, looking contemplatively at his empty 
wineglass. 

‘She came to invite us to dine at Weirmere Hall on Christmas 
Day,’ said Mrs Humphrey, from the head of the table, with some 
pride ; it will remind me of the old times when poor Lady Blunt 
was alive.’ 

‘ I also have had the honour of an invitation,’ said Thirlwell, still 
looking at his wineglass. 

‘ YouT said Mrs Humphrey, forgetting her good breeding in 
her utter astonishment. 

‘Yes, Mrs Humphrey, /,’ said Thirlwell, with bitter emphasis. 
‘Is there anything very surprising in the circumstance, may I 
ask ? ’ 

‘ I am astonished, certainly,’ said Mrs Humphrey, ‘ extremely 
astonished.’ 

Their tones now caught Dr Arthur’s ears, who, in truth, had not 
been attending to what they were saying. He looked up ; looked 
from one to the other. 

‘ What is it all about ? ’ he asked. 

‘ Your mother, sir, Mrs Humphrey, sir,’ answered Thirlwell, in a 
rage, ‘ seems to think it impossible that I, too, can be asked to dine 
with Sir Robert and Miss Blunt on Christmas Day ! But I am 
asked, sir, and I am going, sir. Is there anything in my position to 
prevent my going sir, which Mrs Humphrey seems to think ?’ 

Dr Arthur shrugged his shoulders. 

‘ Certainly not,’ he said ; ‘ you were very attentive to Sir Robert 
during his illness ; you are asked, no doubt, for the same reason 
that I am asked — as his doctor.’ 

‘Really, Arthur!’ said Mrs Humphrey, very indignantly tossing 
her white head. 

‘ What nonsense, mother; why should not Mr Thirlwell be asked ?’ 
said her son, and so the old lady was silent, and the subject was 
dropped, but it did not drop out of Mr Thirlwell’s mind. 

He walked that very night into Oniston to order his waistcoat. 
* I’ll show ’em,’ he repeated to himself many a time as he strug- 
gled through the mud on his long and toilsome way. And he did 
order his waistcoat, and he ordered gloves and a tie and a pair of 


255 Out of lidefU 

glossy leather boots, and after that he felt a man could do no more. 
He must leave the rest to nature, to the straight features, fresh 
colour, and blue eyes on which he prided himself. 

But the invitation which Mary had so innocently and good- 
naturedly given him destroyed all poor Mrs Humphrey’s pleasure 
at the idea of going. 

‘ If I had thought, sister, she would ask hhn^ I would have de- 
clined her invitation,’ she told sister Ann ; ‘ I’m a little too good 
to be asked to meet him^ I think, at any rate.’ 

‘ I daresay she just did it out of kindness,’ said sister Ann 
soothingly ; ‘ you see, as Arthur said, he was very attentive to Sir 
Robert during his illness.’ 

‘ The idea has destroyed all my pleasure,’ replied Mrs Humphrey ; 
‘ I do not think I will go.’ 

Nevertheless she did go ; and when, on Christmas Eve, Mary 
said almost timidly to Dr Arthur, who happened to be with Robert 
out shooting, ‘ Do you think I might send the carriage for your 
mother and aunt to-morrow?’ Dr Arthur put up his hands with a 
comical smile. 

‘ Please don’t think of such a thing ! ’ he said ; ‘ a carriage and 
pair with outriders, etc., is already ordered to convey them here 
in state. But, jesting apart,’ he continued, ‘ my mother has really 
ordered a carriage from the White Hart at Oniston for the oc- 
casion ; and when I mildly suggested that I thought a cab might 
do, as you and Sir Robert here were well aware of the exact extent 
of our vehicular condition, I got snubbed for my pains, and told not 
to be low and vulgar.’ 

Mary laughed. 

‘ Poor mother ! ’ continued Dr Arthur, ‘ she makes small things 
into large ones, and cares more for what things appear than what 
they are.’ 

‘ She is old, you see,’ said Mary gently. 

‘ Like her son. Well, it is very good of you to ask her. By-the- 
bye, you’ve asked Thirlwell too, haven’t you ? ’ 

‘Yes ; I met him just as I came out of your house, and I thought 
it would be kind to ask him, as you were all coming.’ 

‘ Don’t turn his head. Mind it’s not very straight set on his 
shoulders as it is.’ 

‘ No ; how absurd he is ! ’ laughed Mary, thinking of her last 
conversation with him, and little knowing the exertions poor Thirl- 
well had made to improve his garments for her sake. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

SUBSCRIPTION LISTS. 

Mary looked very fair on the following evening when she stood in‘ 
the hall, amid the dark oak carvings and the holly, to receive her 
guests. 


Subscription Lists, 223 

She had spent the morning with Appleby putting up the holly, 
and the place had a bright and festive look that well suited the 
beautiful girl-mistress, who stood there dressed in dark green 
velvet, and with the gold necklace and earrings set with little 
diamond stars, that Robert had given her. 

A great fire was burning in the hall, and the flickering flame- 
light lit up the scene, and fell on the massive oak carvings, on the 
old armour, and trophies of the chase that had hung there so long, 
and fell also on the handsome brother and sister, who stood side 
by side, and who had gone into the hall to welcome their guests as 
they arrived. 

This extra piece of hospitality adopted in honour of the Christ- 
mastide proved very trying to Mr Thirlwell. He had walked all 
the way from Lansdowne Lodge, for Mrs Humphrey had not had 
the grace to offer him a seat in the carriage, and Dr Arthur had 
forgotten, or perhaps had not chosen to do so, and thus the un- 
fortunate young man had been obliged to walk, and it was muddy 
and he had splashed his dress trousers, and he had goloshes on, 
which he had of course reckoned on taking off privately, and here 
he was ushered at once among the assembled company, goloshes, 
muddy trousers and all. 

He blushed; he stammered. What could he do? There was 
old Mrs Humphrey looking at him satirically (he saw that) ; here 
was Mary looking like a queen ! But Mary herself came quickly 
to his assistance ; she whispered a word in Appleby’s ear, and 
Appleby advanced with an air of mild condescension. 

‘ Perhaps, sir, you would like to go into a bedroom?’ and poor 
Thirlwell was only too glad to accept the offer. 

‘ He was not in his place, sir,’ Appleby afterwards remarked to 
one of the footmen. ‘ Miss Blunt should not have done it. It’s 
not for the like of him to be waited on by the like of us.’ 

However, the muddy trousers were brushed, and the goloshes 
taken off, and Mr Thirlwell felt a happier man. But it was only 
comparative happiness. This dinner to which he had been so 
proud to be invited was from beginning to end most trying to poor 
Thirlwell. Robert naturally talked to Mrs Humphrey, who sat by 
his side, and Mary to Dr Arthur, who had taken her in to dinner. 
Kind Aunt Ann would have liked to have entered into a little 
mild conversation with the blushing young doctor, but she was 
afraid of her sistePs disapproving eye, whom she knew so highly 
objected to Mr Thirlwell being there at all. Mr Thirlwell there- 
fore felt uncomfortable, and when they all returned to the drawing- 
room he subsided into the photograph book. He knew he would 
have been much happier at the ‘Welcome Rose’ flirting with 
the pretty barmaid, and misquoting Byron to her admiring ears. 
But we must pay for pride ; and presently Mary came and talked 
to him, but still he was not at his ease. He could not pay her 
compliments, and tell her she was beautiful, with the satirical eye 
of Dr Arthur smiling upon him. He could not forget that passage 
of arms with the old lady, and be very happy while she was in the 
room. Mrs Humphrey, white-haired and aristocratic, in her black 


224 Out of Eden, 

velvet and old lace, awed him in spite of himself. He breathed 
more freely when it was all over, and the happy fact remained to 
be boasted of among his friends. He had dined with Sir Robert 
and Miss Blunt on Christmas Day; ‘a swellish sort of dinner, I 
can tell you,’ he remarked, in his old easy way on the following 
night at the ‘ Welcome Rose ; ’ ‘ they know how to do the correct 
thing. Sweet girl. Miss Blunt ; no pride and nonsense about her ; 
yes, I spent a very pleasant evening. We were only as mall party, 
on account of poor Lady Blunt’s demise ; all friends, you know, 
'and very jolly among ourselves.’ 

The pretty barmaid might believe all this, and think more highly 
of Mr Thirlwell in consequence, but Mr Thirlwell himself felt that 
the evening might do well to talk about, but not to repeat. So 
when Mrs Humphrey decided to invite Sir Robert and Mary to a 
return dinner on New Year’s Day, and felt constrained to mention 
this fact to Mr Thirlwell as an inmate of the house, and to invite 
him to join them, Mr Thirlwell asked to be excused, on the score 
that he would like to * look up’ his own people in Scotland during 
the holiday time. 

We may be sure Mrs Humphrey was only too much delighted at 
the proposition. She wanted his place at the table for one thing ; 
for another she wanted him out of the house. This was an unusual 
affair, and Mrs Humphrey meant to do the thing in style. She 
was a great supporter of the Church and State ; she could not 
support the State on the occasion, but she was determined to pa- 
tronise the Church. She did this by inviting the Rev. Matthew 
Newcombe and his wife to her dinner party. The Rev. Matthew 
had succeeded her own husband in Kis incumbency, and he had 
not made any particular mark since he had done so. He was 
colourless and pompous, and his wife was pompous and colourless. 
Yet they were both so evidently perfectly satisfied with themselves 
that we must suppose they had some unseen excellence to go upon. 

Mr and Mrs Newcombe were pleased to be asked to meet Sir 
Robert Blunt and his sister. They, too, had heard that the great 
lady of the neighbourhood, on whom they were dependent for 
flannels and coals about this time of the year, had called on Miss 
Blunt, and that, of course, had settled her social status at once. 
They also immediately called, anxious not to be long behind my 
lady, and when Robert and Mary entered Mrs Humphrey’s draw- 
ing-room on New Year’s Day, the Rev. Matthew at once held out a 
flabby, fat hand. 

‘ Glad to make your acquaintance. Sir Robert,’ he said. ‘ I 
called the other afternoon ; you were unfortunately from home ; 

I shall give myself the pleasure of calling again, as, ah ! of course, 
you will like to be made acquainted with the condition — spiritual 
and otherwise — of the poor on your — extensive property.’ 

Robert merely said, ‘ I will be glad to see you.’ He objected to 
the Rev. Matthew ; the Rev. Matthew had up to this period nevei- 
taken the slightest notice of himself or his sister, though Mary 
had been a pretty regular attendant at church. Robert naturally 
thought he ought to have called on them before, as though their 


Subscription Lists, 225 

social position was changed, their spiritual condition might be sup- 
posed not to be so. 

He, therefore, did not respond very warmly to the Rev. Matthew’s 
advances. But the Rev. Matthew was not thin-skinned ; he wanted 
Sir Robert Blunt’s subscriptions, etc., and he was not going to be 
chilled by a little coolness. Robert was quite civil to him, for he 
did not wish to make Mrs Humphrey and his friend Dr Arthur un- 
comfortable by being anything else, but he was no more than civil. 
Still before the evening was over the Rev. Matthew again fastened 
on him, and pressed him to name a day when it would be conveni- 
ent for the Rev. Matthew to call. 

‘ Shall I do myself the pleasure to-morrow at twelve ? ’ inquired 
the persistent parson. 

‘ Very well,’ laughed Robert, but he did not really mean to see 
Mr Newcombe. 

‘ Mary, my dear,’ he said, the next morning, ‘ I am going to do a 
horribly selfish thing — at least to ask you to be very unselfish. Will 
you see the parson for me to-day?’ 

‘ Yes, if you like,’ said Mary, with a little shrug. 

* I’ll tell you why ; I’m not going to be badgered into giving 
money where I do not choose to give it, and, of course, he is com- 
ing to ask for subscriptions to this or that. I’ll leave ten pounds 
with you for the poor people to give to him as a New Year’s pre- 
sent, and I’ll give the rest of what I intend to spend to you to give 
away. By-the-bye, I would like you to give five pounds to that 
unfortunate Mrs Moony.’ 

‘ Mrs Moony !’ interrupted Mary, and she gave a visible start, 
and grew a little pale ; so much so that Robert noticed it. 

‘ Why, you silly child,’ he said, ‘ are you thinking of my fever ? 
Well, never mind, Molly, if you like I’ll make it ten pounds as a 
thank-offering, poor soul ! I daresay she needs it all, with that 
host of children ; but they tell me you are quite a Lady Bountiful 
to the poor woman.’ 

A most grave and distressed expression passed over Mary’s face. 

‘ She is very ill, Robert,’ she said, slowly, and as if she were think- 
ing painfully. ‘ I — I — asked Dr Arthur about her, and he says she 
cannot live long.’ 

‘ Why, what’s the matter ? Not the dregs of the fever ? ’ 

‘No, she has a fatal internal illness. He said she could not 
live.’ 

‘ I’m very sorry. See she has everything, Molly — wine, and what- 
ever she wants, you know. And give her ten pounds, my dear, as 
my New Year’s gift. I may be mean to the Rev. Matthew, but I 
don’t want to be mean to our own poor people.’ 

‘You are never mean, Robert,’ said Mary, but still her face wore 
that anxious and distressed expression which it had assumed on the 
mention of Mrs Moony’s name. 

She had gone down during the Christmas week to see her, and 
she had taken the children toys and good things, and she had 
spoken such words of comfort as she could think of to the sick and 
miserable mother. 


P 


226 Out of Eden. 

‘ You know He died for us,’ she said, gently ; ‘ for the greatest of 
sinners — you must pray to God, and He will give you peace.’ 

‘ Oh, miss ! when you are here I don’t seem to be afraid, some- 
how,’ answered the poor woman, with a moan ; ‘ it seems like a 
blessing when you come in at the door, but when the night comes 
I’m that terrified, only the poor children and — and — what — I cannot 
get rid on.’ 

‘ Would you like Mrs Draper to come?’ said Mary. 

‘ Well, it wouldn’t be so lonesome, miss.’ 

Mary therefore had requested Mrs Draper to return once more 
to nurse Mrs Moony. Mrs Draper gave a heavy sigh on receiving 
this information, but made her preparations, though dolefully. 

‘ I thought this wouldn’t last,’ she said, looking mournfully 
round the comfortable little kitchen of the cottage by the lake, of 
which Mary had left her for a time in charge ; ‘ such blessings as a 
clean bed, no pinch of coals, and a full inside were sure to go ! 
Just when I’ve got used to them they’ve took themselves wings — 
well, I expected it — it’s not for the like of me to live at ease.’ 

‘ We’ll, you’ll have plenty to eat and drink at any rate, down at Mrs 
Moony’s,’ said Margaret, Mary’s maid ; ‘ Miss Mary will see to that.’ 

‘ I’m not a great eater,’ sighed Mrs Draper ; ‘ and these are such 
pleasant rooms, so quiet, just the place for a good cry, but with 
the childer, poor dears, a-tumblin’ over each other and you, down at 
Mrs Moony’s, there’s no peace — but tell Miss Mary I’ll go.’ 

And she accordingly did go ; conveying herself, rusty black gown, 
rusty black bonnet, and rusty black bag, down to Mrs Moony’s on 
the following morning, and she was living there when Robert gave 
Mary the money to give to Mrs Moony. 

After Robert left her, Mary began pacing up and down the room, 
with the ten sovereigns still in her hand. She had tried to forget 
Mrs Moony as much as possible during the last few days. She 
had, as we have seen, provided a nurse for her, and Mrs Draper 
had orders to come up to the Hall for whatever she wanted. And 
it seemed so strange that Robert should have remembered this 
woman, and that he should have specially named her. It was 
like fate, thought Mary, the unseen current rushing ever swiftly 
on. How would it end, this weird, dark secret, which haunted 
her like a nightmare, and cast a shadow over the brightness of her 
present life. 

But her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the Rev. 
Matthew Newcombe, who looked exceedingly displeased when he 
heard that Sir Robert was not at home. 

‘ I thought it was an appointment that your brother had arranged 
with me,’ he said, in pompous accents, his fishy eyes fixed uncom- 
fortably on Mary’s face. 

‘ My brother was obliged to go to Oniston on business,’ replied 
Mary ; ‘but he left ten pounds with me, Mr Newcombe, to give to 
you for the poor.’ 

This sop soothed the irate parson. 

* Pray, tell Sir Robert I thank him in the name of my poor,’ he 
•aid, pocketing the ten sovereigns. ‘I wish to see him, though, 


Subscription Lists, 227 

Miss Blunt ; I wish to walk hand-in-hand with him, as it were, into 
many good works ; I wish my wife also to walk hand-in-hand with 
you. My wife sent her compliments, and will be pleased if you will 
join our homely circle on Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock. The 
question to be discussed is, I believe, the quality of the flannel to 
be purchased for the lower garments of our poor pensioners. My 
wife thinks a thinner quality would do, and the money thus saved 
can be bestowed upon our wide mission field. Will you come and 
give us your valuable opinion ? ’ 

‘ I am afraid I am no judge,’ laughed Mary. 

‘ My dear young lady, you are young, and permit me to say, beau- 
tiful ; you have been greatly blessed. I know you will help me to 
bestow blessings. We have various funds. Miss Blunt, to which 
our dear departed friend, Lady Blunt, was always a liberal sub- 
scriber. You now stand in the place of Lady Blunt, and I now 
ask help of you.’ 

Mary drew out her purse, musing sadly on the wisdom of Robert, 
and the parson drew out his subscription lists, to which Mary felt 
herself constrained to subscribe. 

‘ And you will join us on Tuesday, to discuss the flannel ques- 
tion?’ said the Rev. Matthew, now with quite a beaming and pa- 
ternal look, as he gathered together his papers and his pounds. 
‘ By-the-bye, my dear young lady, about the woman Moony ? I’m 
told, a little bird whispered in my ear, that Miss Blunt’s kindness 
to this person is boundless, absolutely boundless. Now may I, as 
your clergyman, give you a little advice? Never be too generous 
in one particular case among the poor. This woman is not a 
Churchwoman, her husband bore an indifferent character, and died, I 
believe, penniless. Altogether, they are disreputable, and yet — ’ 

‘Mr Newcombe,’ interrupted Mary, with some sharpness, ‘I 
was with Mrs Moony during her illness. I am especially interested 
in her, and anything I can do for her I mean to continue to do.’ 

‘ My dear young lady, do not be offended ; do not for a moment 
suppose I wish to stem the warm gush of charity in your tender 
heart — I only wish to direct it into proper channels.’ 

But there was something in Mary’s face which made him pause, 
and so, after pressing her hand, he took up his hat and went away, 
and he was scarcely gone when Robert re-appeared. 

‘ Oh ! Robert,’ said Mary, ‘ have you not really been at Oniston ? 
What a fib I have told, then ! ’ 

‘ I have been in the stables,’ answered Robert, laughing ; ‘ I saw 
him arrive just when I was going to start for Oniston, so I pre- 
ferred to remain in the stables until he was gone. Well, how much 
has it cost you ? ’ 

Mary held up her empty purse. 

‘ You will never get me again to receive your parson for you,’ 
she said ; ‘he wished me to go on Tuesday to discuss the flannel 
question, but I will never discuss the flannel question, nor the 
coal question,’ nor any other question. But Mary did not tell her 
brother that Matthew the Rev. had found fault with her for her 
kindness to Mrs Moony. 


228 


Out of Eden, 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

AT WENMAN CASTLE. 

About a week after the New Year, Robert and Mary received an 
invitation to dine with Lord and Lady Moreland at Wenman Castle. 
Mrs Humphrey heard this with a pang keener than that of bodily 
pain, and even Dr Arthur was secretly disturbed by the news. It 
seemed to take Mary still further away from him, and though he 
had told himself a hundred times since Mary became Miss Blunt 
that he would never now ask her to become his wife, and that even 
were he such a fool as to ask her, he would only be refused for his 
pains, yet still he did not like to hear of this invitation to Wenman 
Castle. 

Robert wished Mary to accept it, but Mary was somewhat un- 
willing to do so. 

* My dear, I do not care for great people,’ she said. 

‘Nor I,’ answered Robert, ‘but it was civil of them to ask us, 
and I think it would be civil of us to go.’ 

So the brother and sister did go, and Mary found that ‘ great 
people,’ as she called them, were very much the same as smaller 
people. Lady Moreland was a pleasant woman, not young and 
not handsome, and Lord Moreland was a plain, sensible, pleasant 
man. Mary sat next to him at dinner, and Lord Moreland was 
struck by her great beauty. 

‘ You will go up to town, of course, for the season,’ he said. 

‘ I believe my brother does talk of going for a month or so,* 
answered Mary, smiling. 

‘ Oh, but you’ll have to be presented, and go through the whole 
thing, you know,’ said Lord Moreland, also smiling. 

Mary shook her head. 

‘No, I am sure I will not,’ she said ; ‘ I have always lived in the 
country, and I shall always live in it. I know no one in London.’ 

‘ That is very soon mended ; my wife will present you, and then 
we shall hear a great deal of Miss Blunt.’ 

‘ It is very good of you to say so, Lord Moreland, but — ' and she 
looked with her clear, candid eyes in his face, ‘ you know our his- 
tory? The world — I mean the world you live in — and my own 
world are very far apart, and I mean to stay in my own,’ added 
Mary, with a little laugh. 

‘ Miss Blunt would adorn any world,’ said her host, with a smile, 
‘ and I hope she will not be so unkind as to cut us after we have 
had the pleasure of making her acquaintance ? ’ 

‘We are country neighbours,’ said Mary pleasantly, ‘and when 
you’re down here perhaps I shall see you sometimes.’ 

‘ I hope so,’ said Lord Moreland, and he afterwards told his 
wife that Miss Blunt was a very charming young woman, and that 
she had a very pretty manner, and that he had asked Sir Robert to 
stay with them in the autumn at their place in Scotland. 

And while Mary was talking to Lord Moreland, a pretty, golden- 


At Wemnan Castle, 229 

haired girl, whom he had taken in to dinner, was smiling on 
Robert. This was the Hon. Ethel Curzon, a niece of Lady More- 
land’s, and a young lady who was not unwilling to exchange her 
father’s somewhat impoverished home for that of a rich husband. 
For though Miss Curzon was a Duke’s granddaughter, her father, 
General Curzon, was only a poor man. 

In the days of her beautiful youth her mother. Lady Mary 
Vernon, had made a foolish love match, and had run away with a 
handsome young soldier, who had but little money and many debts 
to embarrass him. He was a distant connection of her own, well 
born, and intimate with her brother ; and Lady Mary, who knew 
poverty only by name, rose early one morning and left her father’s 
stately mansion behind her, and embarked in a new and untried 
existence with her young husband. 

It was not a happy marriage. They loved each other, but they 
had not the means to live as they had both been accustomed to 
live, and it happened to them, after the prophecy of the old pro- 
verb, that as poverty tapped at the door love began to ‘ sicken and 
decay.’ 

Lady Mary fell into ill health, and two children were born, and 
so years passed on, and the beauty for which she had been loved 
and wedded waned, and she had nothing to supply its place. She 
died when her daughter was a girl of eighteen, and her son a pro- 
mising young soldier. Her sister. Lady Moreland, was very kind 
to General Curzon’s daughter ; but Miss Curzon had also been un- 
fortunate in her love affairs, and at twenty-six this pretty, golden- 
haired, highly-connected girl was still unmarried. 

She was staying with her aunt at Wenman Castle when Robert 
Blunt first met her. He took her into dinner, and Miss Curzon 
condescended to make herself very agreeable to him. 

‘ I suppose we shall meet during the season,’ she said, before 
dinner was over. ‘ I wonder if we shall know each other again ; it 
is so difficult to remember people in town.’ 

‘ I am sure I shall not forget Miss Curzon,’ answered Robert, 
smiling. 

‘ It is so difficult,’ went on Miss Curzon, ignoring the compli- 
ment, ‘ to recall anyone’s features if you have only seen them once, 
and I have a bad memory.’ 

‘ I am very sorry to hear it,’ said Robert ; ‘ well, shall I prepare 
myself to be forgotten, then ? ’ 

Miss Curzon looked at him with her bright blue eyes. 

‘ You have rather marked features,’ she said, ‘ and you are taller 
than most people — ’ 

‘ Do you think you can remember me ? ’ laughed Robert, as Miss 
Curzon paused, still with her blue eyes fixed on his face. 

‘ I think perhaps I may,’ she said ; but in reality she had no 
idea of forgetting Sir Robert Blunt. 

‘ What do you think of him 1 ’ she asked her cousin, Lady More- 
land’s young daughter, a shy, handsome girl, who had scarcely yet 
left the shadow of her mother’s wing, when they returned together 
to the drawing-room. 


230 Out of Eden, 

‘ Of Sir Robert Blunt, do you mean?’ answered Lady Alice, in a 
low tone. ‘ I — I think he is very good looking.’ 

‘ Yes, good looking, not quite up to the .regulation mark, with a 
gardenia in its buttonhole,’ laughed her more experienced cousin, 
with a sarcastic emphasis on the ‘its,’ for Miss Curzon occasion- 
ally said sharp things of her friends, and was not the more beloved 
in consequence. 

‘And his sister?’ whispered the young girl, afraid lest Mary, 
who was talking to Lady Moreland, should overhear. ‘ Isn’t she 
pretty?’ 

‘A classical milkmaid,’ said Miss Curzon, smiling at her own 
wit ; but the next moment she had crossed the room, and seated 
herself by Mary’s side, and when Robert appeared in the drawing- 
room, the pretty girl to whom he had talked at dinner was sitting 
talking to his handsome sister. 

He went up to them, and presently Lord Moreland took Mary 
away to show her a favourite Rembrandt in his picture gallery ; so 
while Mary was walking down the dimly-lighted galleries with her 
host, Robert sat down beside Miss Ethel Curzon. 

‘ I have been talking to your sister,’ she said ; ‘ she is very lovely, 
and she tells me she has lived here all her life.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Robert, ‘we lived in a little cottage by Weirmere 
until the death of Lady Blunt, and then I succeeded to my father’s 
place.’ 

‘ How happy you must feel now,’ said Miss Curzon ; ‘ it must be 
so delightful to get rich, particularly unexpectedly.’ 

‘ My change of fortune was not unexpected to me, as it happened,’ 
answered Robert, with a laugh. 

‘No?’ said Miss Curzon, and she slightly arched her finely- 
marked pale brown eyebrows, and opened her blue eyes a little 
wider. 

Then Robert looked at her more particularly. She was a very 
pretty girl, fair complexioned, with a very delicate colour just 
tinging her fine skin, and with soft pale gold-tinted hair curling 
low on her white brow. But it was the remarkable blueness of her 
eyes that chiefly struck Robert ; they were a bright, clear blue, 
most like the colour of a summer sky, for there was no grey in 
them, but somehow even the long curling light brown eyelashes by 
which they were surrounded did not make them soft or tender. 

‘ Are you looking at me to try and remember me when we next 
meet?’ asked Miss Curzon, who had remarked Robert’s fixed gaze. 

‘ Pardon me, you must forgive me, no ; I am quite sure I will not 
forget you,’ answered Robert, laughing and colouring. 

‘ He is good-looking,’ thought Miss Curzon. ‘And how far is 
your place off here ? ’ she said. 

‘ Perhaps nine miles ; not more than nine miles.’ 

‘ Oh, that is quite near ; I shall come and see your sister some 
day. There is so little to do here.’ 

Robert made a low bow. 

‘You give a most flattering reason for your proposed visit,’ he 
said. 


231 


A I Wenman Castle, 

* Are you satirical ? I hope not ; I hate satirical men.' 

‘ Then I am not satirical’ 

‘ I do not know you well enough to tell. I soon tire of people if 
they are.’ 

^ ‘ My last jest is made,’ smiled Robert, ‘ and my friends will 
sincerely thank you, for I never said anything really amusing in 
my life.’ 

‘ Did you ever try ? ’ asked Miss Curzon, and Robert laughed so 
loudly that Lady Moreland looked round from her easy-chair by 
the fire. 

‘ What are you laughing about ?’ she said. 

‘ Miss Curzon was advising me to try to be a little more amusing,’ 
he said, and Miss Curzon did not contradict him. 

‘ Come here. Sir Robert, I want to talk to you about the parson,’ 
said Lady Moreland ; and while Robert and Lady Moreland dis- 
cussed the Rev. Matthew Newcombe’s shortcomings. Miss Ethel 
Curzon took up a novel and apparently became much interested in 
her story. 

But she did not allow Robert to go away without reminding him 
that she would like to see him again. 

‘ Are you going ? ’ she said, when he went to bid her good-night. 

‘ Yes, and I shall do my best to improve before I see you again,’ 
he answered. . 

‘ I thought you had spoken your last jest ? By-the-bye, if I were 
to bring my young cousin to call on your sister on Friday afternoon, 
would you be at home.? You have not seen him to-day? He is a 
nice boy, an Eton boy, and he and I are great chums. We ride 
together. On Friday, if it is not raining, we will try to find our 
way over the hills.’ 

‘ We shall be delighted to see you,’ said Robert, and Miss Curzon 
smiled and returned to the perusal of her novel. 

‘Well, how did you enjoy yourself, Molly?* asked Robert, as 
soon as the brother and sister had started on their homeward 
journey. 

‘ Much more than I expected to do,’ said Mary. ‘ I like Lord 
Moreland immensely, and oh ! Robert, he has such lovely pictures !’ 

‘ And what do you think of Miss Curzon ?’ said Robert. 

‘ She is very pretty ; and what do you think of her, sir?’ 

‘ I think she is very pretty too, but she wants something, she 
wgjats a certain charm ; but she is coming to see you.’ 

‘ 1 should suggest she is coming to see you,’ laughed Mary. 

In the meanwhile Lord and Lady Moreland were speaking of 
their late guests. 

‘She is a very charming girl,’ said my lord, ‘ and has a fine, 
artistic taste ; she was delighted with the Rembrandt.’ 

‘ I like him also,’ replied my lady, ‘ and I thought he seemed to 
admire Ethel ; I am sure it would be very well if he does.’ 

‘ What nonsense ! You women always will insist that a man 
admires someone or other,’ answered Lord Moreland, but never- 
theless he also thought it would be a good thing if Sir Robert 
Blunt admired his penniless niece. 


232 


Out of Eden, 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

PLAYING WITH FIRE. 

The next day Mary went down to call on Mrs Humphrey after her 
dinner-party, and as she walked on by the lake side, she heard the 
tread of a horse behind her, and looking quickly round, she per- 
ceived Dr Arthur mounted on his ancient Jenny. 

She stopped till he came up, her lovely colour deepening, and 
her heart beating fast, and Dr Arthur dismounted, and put his arm 
through Jenny’s bridle. 

‘ And how are you ? ’ he said. 

‘ I am going to see your mother ; I am taking a few flowers for 
your aunt,’ answered Mary, with many blushes. 

‘ Aunt Ann is quite tiresome about you,’ said Arthur, smiling. 
‘ She goes off with a string of complimentary adjectives at such 
railway speed it is impossible to follow her. You have quite 
turned the poor old woman’s head ; and now, when you’ve been 
dining at Wenman Castle, she’ll think you a wingless angel !’ 

‘ I quite enjoyed myself at Wenman Castle,’ said Mary, also 
smiling, and perhaps with a little coquetry. 

‘ No doubt. I attend the servants sometimes. I forget whether 
I have ever spoken to her ladyship.’ 

‘ I did not wish to go, but Robert wished it, and Lord Moreland 
was so kind to me. He took me to see his pictures, and I was 
delighted.’ 

‘ With my lord, or his pictures ?’ 

‘ Really with both. He is such a nice man ; and. Dr Arthur, 
there was a pretty young lady there who seemed to take rather a 
fancy to Robert.’ 

‘ I see — ah, well it was sure to be ; I shall not blame you in the 
least when you cut me ; it is only natural’ 

‘ I shall not speak to you if you talk like that,’ said Mary. 

*■ But it is quite true ; ten years hence Robert most probably will 
be married to Lord Moreland’s daughter or niece, and I, a stout 
elderly man, will attend the nursery and be snubbed by the head 
nurse ! It’s but the natural course of events.’ 

‘ What makes you so disagreeable to-day ? ’ said Mary, looking 
shyly round at him. 

‘Am I disagreeable? I assure you that I do not mean to be so. 
I feel too highly flattered to be walking with so distinguished a 
lady as Miss Mary Blunt, and only regret that there is no one to 
see us but the wildfowl.’ 

‘ How can you be so rude?’ said Mary, now quite angrily, ‘so 
rude to an old friend— to me — ’ 

There was something tremulous in those last two words, and Dr 
Arthur turned round and looked at her. 

‘ I have not really vexed you, have I ?’ he said, the next minute. 

‘Yes, you have!’ answered Mary, almost petulantly. ‘I think 


Playmg zvith Fire, 233 

you are very rude. You know you have no reason for what you are 
saying, and that Robert and I — ’ 

‘ Well?' he said, inquiringly, as Mary paused. 

*We have always been your friends,’ continued Mary, turning 
round and looking at him with a flush on her cheeks, and a sparkle 
in her eyes ; ‘ and you know very well that we will always be your 
friends. You should not say such things.’ 

‘ Will you forgive me ?’ said Dr Arthur ; and he put out his hand 
and took Mary’s, and he felt it tremble in his clasp. 

‘ I know I am a great bear,’ he went on, ‘ and I suppose I am a 
great fool too, Mary ; and when I heard you were going to Wenman 
— well, it seemed to take you further away from me, and I suppose 
I did not like it.’ 

‘ You are very silly,’ said Mary, and she turned away her head, 
but she did not take away her hand. 

It was a misty day, mist lying on the hills and on the valleys, 
and brooding over the cold grey water of the lake like smoke. 
There was not a sound, and these two walked on together after this 
also in silence, separated by a foolish shadow. 

‘How can I ask her?’ Dr Arthur was thinking; ‘a girl with 
money and position, for she has both now, and great beauty ; she 
might marry anyone ; she is dear, she is noble, but — ’ 

The mist had suddenly lifted, and there they were close to 
Lansdowne Lodge. Mary drew her hand hastily away from Dr 
Arthur’s, and Dr Arthur also dropped hers equally hastily. The 
windows of Lansdowne Lodge stared down upon them, and Mary 
began to talk nervously. 

‘ I hope I’ll find your mother and aunt at home?’ she said. 

‘ I am quite sure you will ; one would have asthma and the other 
bronchitis if they went out on a day like this. Come in,’ and he 
opened the gate, and the next minute he opened the house door 
with his latch-key, and led Mary into the warm, comfortable little 
hall. 

Mother, here is Miss Blunt called to see you,’ he said, and he 
now opened the dining-room door, where the two old ladies were 
sitting in easy-chairs dozing by the fire. 

They both jumped up and ran forward with outstretched hands 
to welcome Mary. 

‘ Such a day — so good of you to come ! ’ cried Mrs Humphrey. 

‘ Your cloak is wet with mist, dear ; let me take it off,’ said Aunt 
Ann. ‘ Oh ! I hope you won’t get cold ! ’ 

‘There is no fear,’ smiled Mary ; ‘ I am very hardy.’ 

‘You look so well ; such a lovely colour !’ said Aunt Ann. 

‘ Please, Aunt Ann, don’t spoil her with flattery,’ said Dr Arthur, 
also regarding ‘the lovely colour’ with some inward complacency ; 
*she has been scolding me for the last half-hour unmercifully.’ 

‘Because you were rude,’ said Mary. 

‘ Oh, I am sure that Arthur would never be rude to you,’ piped 
in Aunt Ann in her thin voice. 

‘ Oh, but he was, though,’ answered Mary, with a glad, bright 
smile. 


234 Out of Eden, 

‘ The truth is, Aunt Ann, I only mildly hinted that as this young 
lady has been dining at Wenman Castle, where I am usually re- 
ceived in the housekeeper’s room, that now I scarcely consider my- 
self fit company for her,’ said Dr Arthur good-naturedly. 

‘ Oh, Arthur, how can you be so foolish V said his mother, ‘ with 
your high connections — the Lansdowne family — ’ 

‘Never seemed quite to see the relationship, did they?’ inter- 
rupted Dr Arthur, with a laugh. 

‘ You are mistaken, my dear ; please do not say such things 
even in jest ; you are giving Miss Blunt quite an erroneous impres- 
sion of your family.’ 

Dr Arthur gave a good-tempered shrug. 

‘ Will you get her some tea, mother ? ’ he said ; ‘ and then she’ll 
tell you all about my lord and my lad)^, and all about the little 
lords and the little ladies, and you’ll thoroughly enjoy yourselves, 
while I go and look over the affairs of my poor patients ; and 
then — when you’re done with your chat, you know — Miss Blunt’ 
(and Dr Arthur looked smilingly at Mary), ‘ if you will kindly let 
me know, I will give myself the pleasure of seeing you safely home 
through the mist.’ 

‘Very well, I will let you know,’ said Mary, and as Dr Arthur 
nodded and closed the door behind him, his mother said, — 

‘ Arthur is always joking ; but it is so foolish to joke about 
your family ; it misleads people ; we are really of very ancient 
family, quite as ancient as Lord Moreland’s. And so you dined 
there last night, my dear ? And was there much company ? 
They always have people staying with them about Christmas time. 

‘ Their niece. Miss Curzon, is staying there.’ 

‘Ah, to be sure. That is General Curzon’s daughter. Lady 
Moreland’s own niece. Lady Mary Vernon, her mother, was a 
great beauty, and she ran away with young Curzon, and they say 
it broke the duke’s heart. He never forgave her, and he never 
was the same man again.’ 

‘Was there anything so very bad about General Curzon then?’ 
asked Mary. 

‘ He was not a general in those days, my dear,’ replied Mrs 
Humphrey, ‘ and he was a nobody — the younger son of a younger 
son, and they had neither money nor title in the family. It was a 
shocking match for Lady Mary, and they say she lived to repent 
it most bitterly. So her daughter is there ? Is she pretty ? ’ 

‘Yes, very pretty.’ 

‘ Her mother. Lady Mary, was beautiful, and to think of her 
making such a match ! But one never can tell what girls will 
do. Lady Sarah, who was nothing particular to look at, married 
the great match of the season. You did not think her handsome, 
did you?’ 

‘ No, but she had a nice face.’ 

‘Well, she’s no beauty to spare,’ said Mrs Humphrey, who 
could not get over the neglect she experienced at her ladyship’s 
hands. ‘ And who else was there ? And had you a handsome 
dinner ? ’ 


Playing zvith Fire, 235 

And so for an hour the two old ladies sat and catechised Mary 
about a family with whom they were personally unacquainted. 
They had the most intense interest in the smallest details of this 
great household, though in all human probability (considering 
their past experience) they never would be under Lord Moreland’s 
roof. But this did not lessen their wish to know all about it ; 
whether Lord Moreland snored or otherwise in his repose would 
have been a subject of absorbing concern to Mrs Humphrey and 
Miss Tomkins, could Mary have given them the information. 

At last Mary rose to go, considering as she did so how she 
could let Dr Arthur know, so that he might fulfil his promise of 
seeing her safely home through the mist. 

‘ If you will go, then, my dear, I must tell Arthur,’ said kind 
Aunt Ann ; and as the little old lady tripped out of the room for 
this purpose, Mary heard Robert’s voice in the hall. 

‘Oh! she’s here, is she.?’ she heard him say. ‘Well, my 
dear fellow, I called to know if you would come up and dine 
with us ? ’ 

The next minute Robert and Dr Arthur were in the room. 

‘So you’re here, Miss Molly !’ said Robert, as he shook hands 
with Mrs Humphrey. ‘ I called to ask Dr Arthur to dine with us.’ 

‘ Well, I hope you will,’ said Mary, looking at Dr Arthur. 

‘ I think I am, always dining with you,’ he said, ‘but I have not 
strength of mind to refuse.’ 

‘ That’s settled then,’ said Robert, in his hearty way. ‘ What 
a day ! Mrs Humphrey. I couldn’t see my hand before me 
scarcely, as I came in. Now, my dear’ (and he turned to Mary), 

‘ are you ready ? Get your cloak on, and let us get home as fast 
as we can.’ 

Mary went into the hall to fasten on her cloak, and the lamp 
was lit there, with its bunch of holly and mistletoe hanging be- 
neath it. 

‘Now, Miss Ann!’ said Robert, laughing and looking up at 
the mistletoe, and with a little scream Aunt Ann covered her 
withered face with her withered hands, and ran back into the 
dining-room. 

Mary looked laughingly after her, and Dr Arthur stood looking 
at Mary. He never forgot her beautiful face as he saw it that 
night, beautiful in the bloom and beauty of youth, for him it had 
no change for evermore. 

He watched the brother and sister go out into the white mist, 
and after promising to join them in a couple of hours, he went into 
the dining-room to have a cup of tea, and as he drank his tea, 
standing by the fireplace, he did what was very unusual to him — 
he looked at himself long and earnestly in the glass above the 
mantelpiece. He was mentally comparing his face with hers— his 
marked with age and thought, hers so fresh and fair— and as he 
looked he gave a heavy sigh. 

‘My dear, what is the matter?’ said his mother. ‘Have you 
got indigestion ? ’ 

‘ I was thinking how old and ugly I look,’ he answered, grimly 


236 Out of Eden. 

enough, and he turned and left the room, and crossed the hall on 
his way to the surgery. 

In the meanwhile the brother and sister were walking arm-in- 
arm through the mist. 

‘ Well, Robert,’ said Mary brightly, ‘ I’ve had the parentage, 
birth, and complete family history of your new friend Miss Curzon 
related to me in the minutest particulars by the old ladies. Shall 
I begin with the parentage ? ’ 

‘ You may begin where you like, my dear,’ answered Robert, 
with a laugh. 

‘ It’s quite pathetic, I assure you. It begins with a broken- 
hearted duke, whose lovely daughter. Lady Mary, actually eloped 
with the younger son of a younger son ! There was a tragedy ! 
This younger son of a younger son is the father of your friend. 
General Curzon now, Mr or Captain Curzon, I suppose, then. 
Well, my dear, Lady Mary died because her husband was poor, 
instead of trying to make the best of it ; but before she died she 
presented the General with Miss Ethel — Oh, Robert ! Oh ! my 
God ! what is that ? ’ •• 

As these last terrified words burst from Mary’s lips, she stopped 
and started violently, while there boomed through the misty air a 
loud, ominous, and heavy sound. It struck on their ears sharp 
and hard, and then the hills around seemed to echo it, and the 
whole air for a moment or two seemed filled with'noise. 

‘ What is it ?’ said Mary, clinging to Robert’s arm, pale and terri- 
fied. ‘Is it a thunderclap.? What is it, Robert .? An explosion V 

‘ I’m afraid it’s some sort of an explosion,’ answered Robert ; ‘but 
what is there to explode about here ? It sounded like gunpowder ; 
it seemed to come from behind.’ 

They both looked back ; the heavy white mist hung round them 
like a pall, but as they stood hand-clasped, Mary trembling and 
white, suddenly the mist became in one direction luminous ; and 
then, as they watched that point, there shot up a forked tongue of 
flame. 

‘ My God ! ’ cried Robert, ‘ it’s at Humphrey’s, at Thistlehill. 
I will go ; something must have exploded. Mary, you had best go 
home.’ 

‘ I will go with you,’ she answered ; and without another word 
the brother and sister ran back to the house they had left not five 
minutes ago, as fast as their feet could carry them. 

They had no need to ask what had happened now. As they 
neared the house flames burst from the windows of the surgery, 
and it was evident that the room was on fire. 

‘Stay where you are, Mary,’ said Robert, now guessing what 
had occurred. ‘Some of Humphrey’s chemicals must have ex- 
ploded, and there may be a second explosion j if you will stay here 
I will run on.’ 

‘ While Arthur, perhaps, is perishing,’ said Mary, in a low, con- 
centrated tone, and she hurried forward and passed Robert. 

Her words were like a revelation to him, though he was too much 
excited at the moment to speak ; he overtook her, and together 


Playing ivith Fire, 237 

they ran up the little hill in front of the house and into the garden, 
and as they did so the fiont door of the house opened and two 
terrified maid-servants rushed out, while they could hear the old 
ladies shrieking for help from one of the bedroom windows. 

‘ The surgery’s blown up ! ’ cried one of the maids, catching hold 
of Mary. ‘ Miss, don’t go in ; the house is on fire ! ’ 

Mary pushed her aside, and ran quickly into the house, and 
across the little hall, followed by Robert. The surgery was at the 
opposite side of the hall to the front entrance, and when Robert 
and Mary reached the surgery door, and Robert opened it, the 
flames leapt out right in their faces. 

They both for a moment started back. 

‘ He must be gone,’ muttered Robert between his clenched teeth. 

But Mary, standing behind him, had seen amid that mass of liv- 
ing, crackling flame a form lying on the floor close to the window, 
and without a word she pulled her cloak, damp with the mist, over 
her face and throat, and, darting past Robert, ran straight into the 
flames, straight up to where lay the yet living form she had seen, 
and clutching it in her arms she began dragging it from the room. 

Robert by this time had recovered from the momentary shock 
of seeing her rush into such deadly peril, and he now sprung to 
her assistance, and in another moment the burning body Mary 
bore was lying on the floor of the hall, while Mary tore off her still 
damp woollen cloak, and with it began at once to extinguish the fire. 

She knew who it was who lay there burnt and blackened ; she 
knew who it was for whom she had risked her life, and yet as she 
tore the still burning linen from his throat, no one could have 
recognised Arthur Humphrey, so terribly was he injured. 

‘Get some brandy, Robert,’ said Mary, ‘or he will sink and as 
Robert turned to go into the dining-room to seek the brandy, there 
crawled out from the still open surgery door, on his hands and 
knees, poor Thirlwell, also much burnt, but not so dreadfully 
injured as Dr Humphrey. 

Robert helped the poor fellow up, and shouted to the maids 
standing trembling outside to come in and get the brandy, and 
one more courageous than the other ventured, and a minute later 
Mary was wetting Dr Arthur’s blackened lips with the stimulant. 

Robert shut the surgery door and ran upstairs to seek the old 
ladies. He soon found them by their terrified shrieks, but he could 
not induce them to walk downstairs. 

‘ The staircase will fall in ; it’s always the first to go ! ’ screamed 
Mrs Humphrey. 

‘ Take us out of the window !’ whimpered Aunt Ann. 

‘ My dear ladies, the staircase is quite safe, though it won’t be 
long so,’ urged Robert ; ‘ come, you must come, there is no time 
for nonsense ; ’ and as they still hesitated, Robert caught up Aunt 
Ann in his arms, and carried the withered, light old lady, as easily 
as if she had been a child, straight downstairs, depositing her by 
the side of poor Thirlwell, who had managed, with the assistance 
of the housemaid, to crawl as far as the stone steps at the front 
door. 


238 Out of Eden, 

‘ And sister ? ’ wept Aunt Ann. 

‘ I will bring her in a minute,’ said Robert, and again he ran 
upstairs, and this time caught hold of Mrs Humphrey, who was 
clutching something precious in her hands. 

‘ It is the family jewels,’ she sobbed, ^ Sindi pedigree I ^ 

But even this love, strong as death, faded before the mother’s, 
for when Mrs Humphrey saw Mary kneeling by the still blackened 
form lying in the hall, she gave a great cry and tore herself from 
Robert’s arms. 

‘ Arthur ! Arthur ! ’ she cried, ‘ my son, my son ! he is not dead } ’ 
And she dropped her jewels and her pedigree alike, and ran up to 
Dr Arthur’s side. 

‘ Hush ! hush ! No,’ said Mary, ‘do not disturb him. Robert, 
take Mrs Humphrey away ; ’ and so Robert gently lifted the poor 
mother up, and whispered kind words of hope and comfort in her 
ear. 

‘ He has had a great shock, you must not disturb him,’ he said ; 
‘something must have accidentally exploded in the surgery, and 
Mary, my sister, dragged him out of the flames.’ 

Poor Mrs Humphrey seemed scarcely to understand ; she al- 
lowed Robert to lead her away and place her on the steps out- 
side by her sister, and then seeing the immediate danger that 
there was of the whole house being soon on fire, he went up to 
Mary. 

‘ My dear,’ he said, ‘ let us lift him out into the garden, for no- 
thing, I am sure, will save the house, and there does not seem a man 
about the place, so I must run myself to the Hall for assistance.’ 

‘ I think it will be best,’ said Mary ; and she rose from her knees, 
and together they lifted Arthur Humphrey up, and carried him out 
into the still, misty night, Mary shading his face softly with her 
hand as they passed his wailing mother. 

‘ I did it ! I did it ! ’ cried poor Thirlwell, rolling off the steps in 
the anguish of his spirit, as the brother and sister bore Arthur 
Humphrey past him. ‘ I’ve killed him ! I’m a murderer ! ’ 

‘ Nonsense, Mr Thirlwell !’ said the housemaid, who had taken 
compassion on him, now catching him up and putting him back on 
the steps again ; ‘ how could you do it ? Sit still and drink your 
brandy and water like a man, you’ll soon be all right ! * 

But poor Thirlwell only replied by groans, though he took not 
unkindly to the brandy and water, which the housemaid insisted on 
pouring down his scorched throat. 

In the meanwhile Mary and Robert had carried Dr Arthur to a 
place of safety in the garden, and laid him gently down on Mary’s 
cloak on the grass, and then Robert told her he must leave her 
and run to the Hall for help, and that he would send Appleby with 
carriages and blankets, and that all the household must be removed 
to the Hall. 

‘ There is not a drop of water to be had that I know of,’ he said, 

‘ and nothing will save this house, so they must all come to us. I 
will come back in one of the carriages ; I will not be away half- 
an-hour. Good-bye, my dear, dear girl,’ and he stooped and 


Playing with Fire, 239 

kissed her bare, fair head, for her hat had fallen off as she tore her 
cloak from her shoulders to wrap round Dr Arthur after she had 
carried him from the burning room. 

‘ Good-bye,’ she said, looking up ; ‘ and, dear, send one of the 
men at once to Oniston for Dr Watson ; let him be at the Hall 
when we arrive there, and tell him to telegraph, before he leaves 
Oniston, to Dr Paget in town ; be sure to tell Dr Watson to tele- 
graph, Robert.’ 

‘ Yes,’ he said, and then he turned and hurried down the little 
hill, leaving the burning house behind him, and Mary knelt by Dr 
Arthur with her hand upon his heart. 

As she knelt there the injured man began to revive, and tried to 
raise himself up. 

‘Where am I ?’ he asked, in a weak fluttering voice, lifting up- 
his burnt hands. ‘ Are my eyes bandaged t I cannot see.’ 

‘ You are in the garden, quite safe ; Robert has gone for Dr 
Watson,’ answered Mary, bending down her head, while the hot 
tears streamed down her cheeks. 

To her inexpressible relief, at this moment she again heard 
Robert’s voice. As he had gone plunging down the hill he had 
been hailed by the voice of a man. This man luckily proved to be 
one of his own tenants, who had been riding home, and been 
attracted by the explosion and the light on the hill, and in a few 
words Robert made Mr Jarvis understand the situation, and as the 
farmer was mounted on a good horse and promised to gallop to the 
Hall, Robert was able to return to Mary, and bring her hope of 
immediate relief. 

‘ Dr Arthur is a little better now, Robert,’ said Mary tearfully. 

‘ Are you better, dear fellow .? ’ said Robert, kneeling down, and 
taking one of the poor burnt hands very gently in his own. 

But Dr Arthur made no reply, and apparently had relapsed into 
insensibility, and more than a miserable half-hour passed, which 
seemed like an age to Mary, who knelt there, feeling the hand in 
her own grow colder and colder, and whose heart seemed to die 
within her as the precious moments on which hung life and death 
passed slowly away. 

At last her ears, sharpened with intense anxiety, heard the dis- 
tant sound of carriage wheels approaching. Robert also (who was 
doing his best to comfort and take care of the two shivering miser- 
able old ladies and poor Thirlwell) heard the carriages coming, and 
now returned to Mary. 

‘ He must go first, my dear,’ he said, speaking in a low tone to 
her. ‘ You go with him and take Appleby with you, and I will 
look after the others.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Mary, but the strain was almost too great. Robert 
hurried away; there was a bustle around her, and a great 
flaring light and heat from the burning house. But Mary kept 
her arms still clasped round Dr Arthur’s senseless form. Then 
Appleby came and gave a half cry of horror when he saw the 
doctor’s face. 

‘ Oh, miss I' he said, * I fear he’s done for I’ 


240 Oict of Eden* 

‘ He is alive,’ she whispered, with her white lips ; and all the 
way as they drove home with the poor burnt head pillowed on her 
breast, she said, again and again, ‘ Appleby, he is alive.’ 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

HOW IT HAPPENED. 

And he was alive when they reached the Hall, and found the little 
doctor from Oniston looking eagerly out for them — alive when they 
carried him up to Mary’s room by her orders, and laid him down 
where everything was so fresh and bright — the fire burning, the 
candles lit, all ready waiting for the fair young mistress, but now 
destined to receive so great a sufferer. 

Mary by this time was almost unable to speak — she was ex- 
hausted, she was hoarse — but still she stood brave and pale outside 
the door while the doctor made his first examination of Dr Hum- 
phrey’s injuries, assisted by Appleby. In about a quarter of an 
hour the doctor came out on the corridor where she was standing, 
and gently took her trembling hand. 

‘ My dear young lady,’ said the little man, making his best bow, 

‘ Appleby told me you were waiting outside to hear my opinion of 
our poor friend, and I am glad to say I hope in some ways it is a 
favourable one — that is, I believe his life will be spared — but, alas ! 
Miss Mary,’ and the doctor shook his head, ‘ I fear for his sight.’ 

‘You mean he will be blind?’ said Mary, with a sort of gasping 
sigh. 

‘ I fear so ; I would not like to give too decided an opinion, but 
I fear the eyes are irreparably injured. But we shall see, we shall 
see ! We must not hint such a thing to the patient, of course ; 
everything must be said to him to keep up his spirits, and he has 
a fine constitution to go upon ; but how did such a thing 
happen? Dr Humphrey is a scientific man, a prudent man, an 
excellent chemist, how, then, did he manage to blow himself up?’ 

‘ I know nothing,’ answered Mary ; ‘ we had parted with him 
only about five minutes before — my brother was walking home with 
me— and we heard the explosion.’ 

‘ Terrible ! ’ said the little doctor, rubbing his hands ; ‘ and I hear 
— a rumour has reached me — is it true? — that you actually saved 
our poor friend’s life — snatched him from the flames?’ 

‘ I saw him first, that was all,’ said Mary, her eyes filling with 
tears. 

‘ Let me look at your brow. Ah ! my dear young lady, do you 
know you have scorched your eyebrows and eyelashes, and the 
skin is a little injured. You must let me give you a lotion, and the 
eyebrows will grow. We must be thankful it is no worse.’ 

‘ I never felt it,’ said Mary, putting up her hand. ‘Yes, I feel it 
is a little hurt now, but it is nothing. And— and you think he will 
be blind?’ 


How it happened. 241 

*We must not talk of it,’ said the doctor, shaking his head. 
‘We must cheer him, we must amuse him, we must keep him up ; 
nothing depressing must be allowed.’ 

‘ And poor Mr Thirlwell is badly burned, too,’ said Mary. 

‘ Thirlwell ! ’ said the doctor ; ‘ was that young scamp in the 
scrape ? Then it’s accounted for ; it’s Thirlwell that has done the 
mischief, and no one but Thirlwell. Ah, ah ! I see now ; that 
young idiot has been playing with fire.’ 

And Dr Watson’s idea was a perfectly correct one. The terrible 
accident that had so nearly deprived Dr Humphrey of his life had 
happened thus : For years Dr Humphrey had dabbled in scientific 
chemistry, and had devoted much time and thought to the pursuit. 
He was, in fact, a well-known scientist, and had especially of late 
turned his attention to the study of explosives, keeping for this 
purpose (always under lock and key) a small quantity of some 
highly-dangerous materials. 

Poor Thirlwell was never allowed to approach a certain tall 
locked cabinet that stood on one side of the surgery near the 
window, and there Dr Arthur had stored away small quantities of 
those frightfully dangerous explosives that modern crime has made 
us only too familiar with. 

It happened Dr Arthur required something out of this cabinet 
after he left Mary drinking tea in the dining-room with his mother, 
and he accordingly unlocked it, leaving the keys hanging in the 
door. Thirlwell was then out, and presently Robert rapped at 
the surgery door, and went in to invite his friend Dr Arthur to 
dinner. 

The two men talked together for a short time, and then Dr 
Arthur told Robert his sister was in the dining-room, and they both 
went almost immediately to join her, Dr Arthur never remember- 
ing he had left his keys hanging in the cabinet door. 

Scarcely had he left the surgery when Thirlwell entered it ; long 
had Thirlwell wished to know what was in that locked cabinet — 
long and curiously — and now was his chance. He had heard visitors 
talking as he entered the house, and he thought he had the doctor 
safe. He got the step-ladder from its corner, he opened the cabinet, 
and then he mounted the ladder and reached down from the highest 
shelf in the cabinet a square box, little dreaming of the deadly 
nature of its contents. 

He lifted the lid of the box, and as he did this. Dr Humphrey 
again returned to the surgery, and saw to his consternation and 
anger Thirlwell standing on the step-ladder with the box of the 
most dangerous of all explosives in his hands ! ^ ^ 

‘What are you doing there You fool — you idiot!’ he cried, 
and ran hastily forward. 

Thirlwell turned round so quickly in his fright and terror at 
being caught, that he overbalanced himself and overturned the 
step-ladder. Both came down with a sudden crash : Thirlwell 
falling forward, and the box in his hands falling also. The open 
box fell unfortunately on a case of instruments standing below I and 
ip pn instant, as the explosive struck the steel, there came a loud 


242 Out of Eden, 

and terrible report, and Dr Humphrey was first blown off his feet 
and then dashed violently on the floor. 

The flames caught the muslin curtains, and a minute later the 
room was on fire. The explosion had blown out the window, and 
blown a great hole right through the ceiling of the room. Stunned 
and terrified, Thirlwell found himself lying with his head close to 
the sofa, and he managed to crawl under it, and it partly protected 
him. But Dr Humphrey lay absolutely, for a moment or two, 
enveloped in flame. Had Mary faltered for a second, he would 
have lost his life. As it was, she dragged him out a blackened, 
burning mass, disfigured almost beyond recognition, but alive.’ 

‘ And he will live, my dear young lady, please God,’ said little 
Dr Watson, clasping her hand ; and then Mary turned from him 
and went into one of the dark empty rooms down the corridor, and 
having shut the door she fell on her knees. 


A quarter of an hour later the whole Hall was astir, for Robert, 
with his carriage full of the unfortunate sufferers from the explosion, 
had arrived, Mrs Humphrey being in an extremely prostrate and 
fainting condition. 

Sister Ann, however, had luckily kept her senses about her, and 
Mary found her a most valuable assistant in attending on the 
invalids. Poor Thirlwell’s burns were now seen to, and were found 
to be extremely severe. But the explosion had taken place as he 
fell forward, and had been behind him, as it were, and therefore his 
face had almost escaped. But he was badly burnt, and his ruddy 
locks were gone, and the shock, and his remorse for having caused 
the accident, made him a truly pitiable object. 

Even Dr Watson felt sorry for him, and made as light as he 
could of Dr Humphrey’s injuries to the miserable young man, who 
wept maudlin tears, and ref^used to be comforted. 

‘ Not for my own agonies,’ he said, ‘ though I can’t sit down, and 
don’t think I will ever sit down again with comfort — but still it is 
not for this, that 1 can’t help shedding these, what you may call, 
unmanly tears ! No, Dr Watson, not for this, for I could stand 
and bear it ; but how can I bear the thought that I have killed 
him ! / can7tot bear it!^ And poor Thirlwell wept more bitterly 
still. 

‘ My dear Mr Thirlwell,’ said Dr Watson, ‘ I trust and hope our 
poor friend’s life will be spared, and that he will live for many years 
to adorn our profession. His injuries are of a severe, but not, I 
believe, of a fatal nature, and I trust by to-morrow to have the 
benefit of Dr Paget’s great experience, as by Sir Robert’s wish I 
have telegraphed to town for him.’ 

Dr Watson’s opinion gave some little consolation to Mr Thirlwell, 
but he still continued very low and depressed, so much so that it 
was necessary that someone should sit up with him, and Mary sent 
for Mrs Draper, who was at Mrs Moony’s cottage, to undertake 
this duty. 

A more congenial choice could not have been made— as poor 


How it happened. 243 

Thirlwell moaned, Mrs Draper moaned in chorus, and when he 
sighed her sympathetic sighs resounded through the room. 

‘ It’s a sad beginning to the New Year to be sure !’ said Mrs 
Draper. ‘ Ah, well ! Mr Thirlwell, sorrow was sure to come in it, 
sooner or later, we must expect that, you know ; we’re born to it, 
like the sparks in the Scriptures ! ’ 

‘ Mrs Draper,’ replied Thirlwell, in a sepulchral voice, ‘lam no 
coward. I could face death on the open field, on the battlefield — 
for I thought once of joining the volunteers, but the expense of the 
uniform deterred me — but to be burned alive as it were ; to be 
lying here feeling as the leg of mutton must feel on the spit ; as the 
martyrs (I forget their names, but it’s no matter) must have felt at 
Smithfield, is more than I have deserved from fate ! And I am 
not only burning outwardly, but inwardly too, Mrs Draper — my ’art 
is burning ! Every pang he suffers (you know to whom I allude, I 
cannot bear to speak of it), but every pang he suffers goes straight 
through me ! ’ 

‘ Dear, dear ! ’ said the sympathetic Mrs Draper, with uplifted 
hands, ‘you have a tender heart, Mr Thirlwell.’ 

‘ I have,’ he answered, with a heavy sigh ; ‘ it’s been my curse, 
Mrs Draper ; it’s led me into a hundred follies — but this is all 
ended now. If I survive this fiery trial I shall be a changed man ; 
my ’art is seared, Mrs Draper ! ’ And Mr Thirlwell could not 
restrain his tears at the idea or the reality of his own suffer- 
ings ; while Mrs Draper shed hers plentifully from a feeling of 
sympathy. 

While this doleful conversation was going on in Mr Thirlwell’s 
room, a very different scene was taking place by the bedside of the 
stronger-minded sufferer, Arthur Humphrey. 

He had revived wonderfully, and lay calm and patient, enduring 
his great pain with silent courage, and speaking even cheerfully to 
his poor mother, who had insisted upon seeing him. At last, how- 
ever, they got her away, and sister Ann persuaded her to go to 
bed, and Robert and the doctor sat down to dinner, and the ser- 
vants from Lansdowne Lodge to supper, and the house settled 
down to a sort of quietude. 

But in Arthur Humphrey’s room there were two watchers who did 
not leave him — Aunt Ann and Mary. They sat by his bedside in 
turns, cooling his parched lips with ice, and tending him as only 
gentle, tender woman can tend the sick. The doctor agreed to 
stay all night. Robert went out to smoke, and to hear the fate of 
Lansdowne Lodge — the house was very still, and presently Aunt 
Ann sank into a gentle slumber. 

‘Aunt Ann,’ said Dr Arthur, and as he spoke a soft hand stole 
over his bandaged one. 

‘ Is Mary gone .?’ asked Dr Arthur the next minute. 

‘No, I am with you,’ said Mary, kneeling down by the bed- 
side. 

Neither spoke for a moment or two ; then Dr Arthur said, in a 
broken voice, — 

‘ They tell me, Mary— Watson tells me you saved my life,’ 


244 Eden. 

‘ God gave me strength, Arthur,’ she answered, and she bowed 
her head on his hand, deeply moved. 

‘ And that poor fellow, Thirlwell,’ said Dr Arthur, after a little 
painful pause, for he dare not trust himself to thank her, ‘ is he very 
badly burned 1 ’ 

‘ Yes, he is badly burned, but not dangerously,’ answered Mary, 
trying to recover her composure ; ‘ but he is so dreadfully un- 
happy about you — he blames himself so much — he is really very 
miserable.’ 

‘ Poor, stupid lad ! he did not know what he was doing. Tell 
him from me, Mary, it was an accident.’ 

‘ I will tell him,’ whispered Mary, ‘ and now will you try to sleep ?’ 


CHAPTER XL. 

VISITORS. 

The next day the whole countryside rang'with the accident ; and 
we may be sure that some said one thing, and some said another. 
However, one fact stood smouldering still to convince the most un- 
believing that a very serious calamity had occurred. The doctor’s 
well-known substantial house, Thistlehill, or Lansdowne Lodge, 
as the poor old lady had named it, was a substantial house no 
longer, only a smouldering ruin ; the bare walls alone remaining. 

There could be then no doubt of the truth of the story ; but some 
said Dr Humphrey was dead, and some said Mr Thirlwell was 
dead, and there were also many versions of Mary’s conduct. How- 
ever, before mid-day it became pretty generally known that Mary 
had saved Dr Humphrey’s life, and that he now lay dangerously 
ill at Weirmere Hall, and that the great London surgeon who had 
attended Sir Robert Blunt in his illness had been telegraphed for, 
and was now anxiously expected. 

These rumours reached Weirmere Castle, and in the course of 
the afternoon Lord Moreland himself and his niece. Miss Ethel 
Curzon, rode over to Weirmere to inquire after Dr Humphrey and 
to see Robert and Mary. 

By this time Dr Paget had paid his visit and was gone. His 
opinion of Dr Humphrey’s condition was almost the same as Dr 
Watson ; both doctors believing that he might quite recover his 
health, but that his eyesight was gone. It was a terrible verdict 
for a man, yet in the prime of life, to be called upon to hear. But 
the doctors did not tell him that he would never look on God’s fair 
earth, or Mary’s fair face, again. They temporised ; his sight was 
injured they said, and Arthur Humphrey heard this with the steady 
bravery which he had evinced ever since he had recovered his 
consciousness. 

Mary and Aunt Ann had never quitted his room through the 
whole night, but _he did not know Mary had never left it. He 
thought Aunt Ann had been his only watcher^ and Aunt Ann was 


Visitors. 245 

told not to undeceive him. But in reality Mary would not leave 
him ; Aunt Ann was old, she told herself ; she might fall asleep ; 
some change might occur — no, she would remain, and when little 
Dr Watson stole into the room to look after his patient in the chill, 
misty dawn, he found Mary pale, calm, and wakeful, and gentle 
Aunt Ann indulging in soft low snores on the couch. 

Mary put her finger to her lips as the doctor entered ; Dr Arthur 
also was asleep, and as this was the very best thing that could 
happen to him, the doctor saw his condition with the greatest 
satisfaction. He awoke refreshed and conscious, and as Aunt Ann 
was also now awake, he did not know who had watched him all 
through the dark hours ; who had silently prayed for him, and who 
had felt no weariness during that long vigil. When the others 
came in and the whole house was astir, Mary went quietly away. 
She looked at herself in the glass before she lay down to take some 
rest, and for the first time saw that some of her beautiful pale gold- 
tinted hair was singed and blackened. 

‘ What matter,’ she thought, and then she gave a little tender 
sigh ; she was thinking perhaps Arthur Humphrey would never see 
it any more. 

Before she awoke Dr Paget had arrived, and she saw him before 
he left the Hall, and heard from his lips also that he feared Dr 
Humphrey’s sight was irreparably destroyed. She grew a little 
pale — she had feared it, she had known it, and yet as it fell on her 
ears it seemed to give her fresh pain. 

‘And you think there is no hope?’ she said, standing there 
before the doctor, with clasped hands and appealing eyes. 

‘ I fear not,’ he answered, gravely and gently. 

‘ She is a beautiful woman,’ he said afterwards to little Dr 
Watson, who drove with the great man to the station, ‘ and she 
seemed terribly cut up about poor Humphrey’s eyesight. They are 
not lovers, are they ? ’ 

‘ The good people about here say he admires her greatly,’ 
answered the little doctor from Oniston ; ‘ but, of course, now, poor 
fellow, she will never look at him.’ 

‘ I am not so sure of that,’ answered the cleverer man ; ‘ women 
— some sort of women, you know — do not love a man less when 
trouble overtakes him. I shall esteem him a lucky fellow still if 
Miss Blunt loves him !’ And Dr Paget laughed. 

In the meanwhile Mary had gone back to Arthur Humphrey’s 
bedside, though not without shedding ‘ some natural tears.’ Dr 
Arthur himself noticed that her voice had a certain pathos in it 
that was unusual. 

‘Have you been talking to the doctors, Mary?’ he asked 
presently. 

‘ Yes,’ she said, speaking in a low tone. 

Arthur Humphrey moved restlessly. 

‘ Did they say anything to you about my sight ?’ he asked. 

Mary grew a little paler, and her lips trembled. 

‘ They said — it is injured,’ she answered, after a moment’s silence. 

* I wopder if that means something worse ?' now asked Dr Arthur. 


246 Out of Eden, 

* It would be a terrible thing, Mary, would it not, if— I were blind ! * 
And he sighed. 

Mary bent over him and took his hand. 

* Do not think of such a thing,’ she said ; * you will live, you will 
get well, they told me, and I am content and Mary knelt down 
by the bed still with her hand on the poor maimed one lying on the 
coverlet. 

Again Dr Arthur. drew a long quivering sigh, as he moved to 
press her hand closer to him. 

‘ I — I will not thank you,’ he faltered ; ‘ you have saved my life, 
Mary, and all the pain is nothing to me now.’ 

Mary did not ask him why. She knelt there, with her hand clasped 
on his, and her sweet face lying on his hand. She was thinking, 
‘ I will see for him, I will always be near him, nothing but death 
shall part us now.’ And over Dr Arthur’s heart, too, crept a new, 
strange bliss. 

‘ She loves me,’ he thought, and for the moment he did not care 
to look beyond. 

And so for a while the man forgot his great pain, and the woman 
her great grief. They were together, and the world and the things 
of the world seemed to glide away from them, leaving a little space 
where there was but peace and rest, and the light and radiance of 
unchanging love shining around them. 


‘ My dear,’ said Aunt Ann, rushing into the room, ‘ who do you 
think has called — so flattering, I’m sure ! — to inquire after Arthur ? 
— Lord Moreland and his niece, Miss Curzon.’ 

Mary turned round with a smile and rose from her knees, recalled 
from that sweet dreamland where she was to dwell with Arthur for 
evermore, by Aunt Ann’s appearance. 

‘Jenkins came and told me,’ continued Aunt Ann, who was quite 
in a flutter ; ‘ and so I thought, my dear, I would run and tell you 
at once, as you might want to add a bow or something to brighten 
you up ; though I am sure you look very nice.’ 

‘ But I am not going down. Miss Tomkins,’ smiled Mary. 

‘ Not going down ! ’ repeated Aunt Ann, and her jaw fell ; ‘ my 
dear, after such a compliment, I think you really ought.’ 

‘ Robert will do,’ said Mary, still smiling, and taking up her 
work ; ‘and why don’t you go and see the great people then. Aunt 
Ann ?’ 

‘ My dear,’ said Aunt Ann, looking mournfully at her poor little 
shabby gown, while a tear gathered in her faded blue eyes, ‘ you 
have heard, I suppose, about our wardrobes ? I have nothing left 
but this,’ and again Aunt Ann looked at her scanty serge ; ‘ and 
this is not fit to appear before a nobleman.’ 

‘Never mind. Aunt Ann,’ said Mary, kindly and sympatheti- 
cally ; ‘ you will soon get another wardrobe, and Lord Moreland 
will be only too glad to see you unharmed, and will never look at 
your dress.’ 

But Aunt Ann wi^ald not go. There were proprieties to be ob- 
served, she said, even during a calamity like this. ‘ But I will just 


Visitors, 


247 

run and tell sister,’ she added, ‘that his lordship has called to 
inquire after Arthur and herself, for I am sure the attention will 
do her good ; ’ and away tripped Aunt Ann to her sister’s room, 
delighted to be the bearer of some news that she hoped would 
cheer poor Mrs Humphrey. 

‘Why won’t you go down and see them, Mary?’ now asked Dr 
Arthur. 

Before Mary could reply Robert rapped at the room door and 
came in. 

‘ Well, Arthur,’ he said, going up to the bed, ‘and how are you 
now ?’ 

‘ In much less pain,’ he answered, cheerfully. 

‘ That’s good news. And, Molly, my dear, Lord Moreland is in 
the drawing-room, and especially wants to see you. Can you go 
down for a few minutes ?’ 

Mary shook her head. 

‘No, Robert, dear,’ she said. 

‘ But why, Mary ?’ said Dr Arthur, ‘ Do go ; I think you ought 
to go.’ 

‘ I do not care to go,’ said Mary good-naturedly. ‘ I leave the 
swells to Robert. So Miss Curzon is here, Robert?’ 

‘ Yes, Miss Curzon is here ; you can leave Miss Curzon to me if 
you like, but I think you should come down to speak to Lord 
Moreland, for he really especially asked to see you.’ 

‘ But, Robert — ’ began Mary, and she looked at Dr Arthur 
lying in the bed. 

‘Aunt Ann will come here, Mary,’ said Dr Arthur, as Mary 
paused ; ‘ I think you should go.’ 

So Aunt Ann was recalled, and Mary (somewhat unwillingly) 
went down to see their visitors. Lord Moreland was standing 
looking out of the window as the brother and sister entered the 
room, and as they did so he turned round and came forward with 
outstretched hand. 

‘You have been distinguishing yourself, I hear, since I had the 
pleasure of seeing you ? ’ he said. 

‘We have been in great trouble,’ answered Mary, and then she 
turned to speak to Miss Curzon, who came forward, smiling, fresh 
and fair, and held out her little gauntleted hand. 

‘ You are quite a heroine, I declare,’ she said. 

‘ I do not think I am a heroine,’ said Mary, smiling. 

‘But to waste it all on a middle-aged doctor!’ continued Miss 
^Curzon, with a little shrug of her pretty shoulders. ‘ If it had been 
fanyone interesting.’ And she looked at Robert. 

‘ Dr Humphrey is our dearest friend,’ said Mary, with a tremor 
in her voice ; ‘ my brother’s dearest friend and mine.’ 

‘ Oh, in that case — ’ began Miss Curzon. 

‘ In any case,’ interrupted Lord Moreland, with some sharpness, 
‘ Miss Blunt has done what few women have the courage or the 
pluck to do ; and I am glad to hear,’ he added, looking at Mary, 
‘ that our friend Dr Humphrey’s life is likely to be spared. He is 
a man for whom I have the highest respect/ 


248 Out of Eden, 

‘ He is a splendid fellow/ said Robert, heartily. ‘ He is lying 
there upstairs, enduring the miserable pain he must be bearing 
without a moan. Ah, Miss Curzon, there are heroes, you see, even 
among middle-aged doctors ! ’ And Robert laughed. 

Again Miss Curzon shrugged her pretty shoulders. She was in 
a riding-habit — a slim, slight golden-haired girl — with a heart 
about as warm as the agate on her gold-mounted whip. 

‘You snub me, Lord Moreland snubs me/ she said, ‘and still I 
hold to my first opinion — it would require a more interesting 
person — a much more interesting person, than a doctor, however 
respected he may be, poor man, for whose sake I would have run 
the risk of being blown up by dynamite or nitro-glycerine, or 
whatever the horrid stuff was ; you might have even lost your sight. 
Miss Blunt.’ 

‘ As he has done/ said Mary, in a low voice. 

‘ Is this true?’ asked Lord Moreland, in a sympathetic tone. He 
was a plain man this, plain-featured and plain-mannered ; but, as 
Mary had said, there was something in his face that made you like 
him — something noble and kind ; and Mary turned to him now, 
and away from his pretty niece, with a feeling of relief. 

‘ I fear it is true/ she said. ‘ He does not know ; the doctors say 
he must not know, but we fear there is no hope.’ 

‘ I deeply grieve to hear it, most deeply ; poor fellow, it will be a 
sad awakening, and in his profession too.’ 

Mary’s lips quivered. 

‘You know what we owe him ?’ she said ; ‘my brother’s life ; but 
for Dr Humphrey, Robert would have died, and so now — Robert — ’ 

She did not end her sentence, her voice faltered and broke, and 
with kindly sympathy Lord Moreland held out his hand. 

‘ I will not detain you from your patients any longer now/ 
he said. ‘ I am glad I have seen you ; I called to express my 
admiration of your conduct, and my wife desired me to say so 
many pretty things that I have forgotten them ; but one was that 
she would soon hope to have the pleasure of calling on you also. 
And will you tell Dr Humphrey, that the next time I come, I trust 
I shall be allowed to see him ? And now, my dear Ethel, it is 
time we were off.’ 

‘ So soon ? ’ said Ethel 

‘ Quite time ; we are only in the way, with the house full of poor 
sick folk. How is the old lady, the doctoi-’s mother, Miss Blunt?’ 

‘Very much shaken ; she is confined to bed/ answered Mary; 
‘ but I will tell her you asked after her.’ 

‘ Pray do ; give her my compliments and Lady Moreland’s com- 
pliments, and tell her how sincerely we sympathise with her/ said 
Lord Moreland, little guessing all the good that his message would 
do poor Mrs Humphrey lying upstairs, who revived even at the 
idea that a lord was in the house. 

And when she heard that Lord and Lady Moreland had sent an 
especial message to her, she blushed like a girl receiving her first 
offer. 

‘ §0 kind, so thou^^htful,’ she murmured. |t did her more good 


Visitors, 249 

than all the beef-tea and the port wine and the brandy that Mary 
and Aunt Ann had tried to persuade her to swallow. She sat up 
in bed, and had her nightcap put straight, and her white hair 
arranged, and attended to other little personal adornments which 
she had utterly neglected before. 

‘ They will call after this,’ she told sister Ann in confidence ; 
‘ when we return to Lansdowne Lodge, they are sure to call. I 
always thought there was some hidden reason that they did not. I 
suspect Arthur offended them some way or other ; poor Arthur is 
very peculiar, you know.’ 

Aunt Ann dared not tell there was no Lansdowne Lodge to call 
at now ; only the bare walls of the old house were standing, 
blackened and melancholy to behold ; but Mrs Humphrey re- 
mained happy in her ignorance, and prattled on the whole after- 
noon about the family at Wenman, just as though they were her 
most intimate friends. 

The little doctor from Oniston also appeared impressed with the 
importance and dignity of his patients, when Mrs Humphrey in- 
formed him that Lord Moreland had called personally to make 
inquiries as to their condition. He felt the feeble, fluttering pulse 
of the old lady with greater deference, and listened to her old- 
world stories with polite attention. 

But he had his hands full. Poor Thirlwell grew worse as the 
day passed on, and his nervous, excitable nature aggravated his 
sufferings threefold. Mrs Draper was obliged to leave him during 
the afternoon to go down to the cottage by the lake to see after her 
patient, Mrs Moony, and during her absence Aunt Ann sat by the 
poor fellow, and tried, in her kind way, to cheer him. 

‘ You are young and strong, Mr Thirlwell ; you must not give 
way,’ said Aunt Ann, as a more dismal moan than usual issued 
from beneath the bed-clothes. 

‘ No,’ groaned Mr Thirlwell. ‘ I’m old, old in misery.’ 

‘ We all have our trials,’ said Aunt Ann. ‘ Look at my poor 
nephew — ’ 

‘ Miss Tomkins ! Miss Tomkins !’ interrupted Thirlwell, in great 
excitement, ‘ you are touching the raw.’ 

‘ Indeed, Mr Thirlwell,’ said Aunt Ann, quite nettled, ‘ I did not 
touch you at all.’ 

‘ I mean the raw on my soul, my good lady,’ continued Thirlwell, 
looking gloomily with his blue eyes at the shocked maiden lady ; 
‘ that’s what I mean. Miss Tomkins, the unhealed wound on my 
art, it’s gaping wide, and you’ve plunged a dagger into it.’ 

Poor Aunt Ann got quite afraid. She thought the young man 
was going out of his mind, and she hastily rang the bell for assist- 
ance, and requested that the doctor might be sent for. 

When the doctor came he gave poor Thirlwell something to 
soothe him, and he was still trying to keep Thirlwell quiet when 
Mary rapped at the bedroom door, and when the doctor rose^ to 
see who it was, Mary beckoned him into the corridor, looking 
exceedingly grave. 

‘ Doctor,’ she said, * I am going to ask you a great favour. You 


250 Out of Eden, 

remember Mrs Moony, where I saw you first, you know, when 
she had the fever ? ’ 

‘ Yes, I remember her,’ answered Dr Watson, rather coldly. 

‘ Since then I understand Dr Humphrey has attended her.’ 

‘ By my wish, I think,’ answered Mary, smiling and trying to 
mollify the little doctor, who did not like his patients taken away 
from him ; ‘ but she is very ill, doctor — a serious, I fear a fatal ill- 
ness has attacked her, and I sent Mrs Draper down this afternoon 
to see how she was getting on, and Mrs Draper has found her much 
worse. Doctor, I want you to go and see her, and to tell me really 
what you think,’ continued Mary, very earnestly, and looking 
anxiously in the doctor’s face. 

‘ I fear I can’t go to-day. Miss Blunt,’ said the doctor, looking 
at his watch, ‘but it’s a case that will keep, I daresay. I’ll try to 
find time to-morrow ; but, of course, with both poor Humphrey and 
Thirlwell thrown on my hands, and with their patients to look 
after, I have really more to do than I can accomplish.’ 

Mary was silent for a moment, then she spoke urgently. 

‘ I know you have far too much to do, Dr Watson,’ she said ; 
‘but — but I am very anxious about this woman. She is suffering 
great pain, Mrs Draper tells me, and I cannot leave the house to- 
day, and I want to know — oh, so much. Dr Watson ! — how she 
really is.’ And Mary clasped her hands together (which was an 
action of hers when she was excited), and looked appealingly in 
the doctor’s face. 

The doctor admired Miss Blunt, and he was too gallant a man 
to refuse her. 

‘ My dear young lady,’ he said, ‘ if you really wish me to go, of 
course I will go. You have only to command me.’ And the 
doctor laid his little fat hand on his speckled waistcoat. 

‘ I will send you down in one of the carriages,’ said Mary, ‘ and 
Mrs Draper can ride on the box. For, Dr Watson, we must find 
another nurse for poor Mr Thirlwell. Mrs Moony is too ill to be 
alone.’ 

* Well, we shall see,* said the doctor ; ‘ do you wish me to go at 
once ? ’ 

‘ Yes, I am very anxious,’ answered Mary ; and Dr Watson 
looked at her in surprise, for long acquaintance with the suffer- 
ings of the poor had made him able to witness them with perfect 
equanimity. 

‘ Curious,* he thought, looking after her, as Mary turned away 
to give her orders about the carriage. ‘ What can possibly make 
her so anxious about this woman ? Let me see,’ and he put his 
hand to his forehead and tried to remember the particulars of Mrs 
Moony’s former life, but he could not recall them. Mrs Moony 
and her husband had lived at Oniston when he first knew them, 
and had always borne but indifferent characters. This was all he 
could remember, yet Mary’s earnestness on the subject had struck 
his attention. 

‘ It is very remarkable,* he said ; ‘ she nursed this woman too ; 
there must be some motive.* 


Visitors^ 


251 

He met Sir Robert close by, followed by Florence’s little Don, 
limping on three legs, as he crossed the hall to go to the carriage. 
Robert stopped to inquire after Dr Arthur. 

‘What do you really think of Humphrey to-day, doctor?’ he 
said. 

‘ I think he is better than we could possibly expect him to have 
been, after such serious injuries,’ answered the little doctor ; ‘ he 
has revived wonderfully. Sir Robert ; but what endurance he has, 
sir! Splendid!’ 

‘Yes, it’s marvellous how he bears it. He’s a fine-fellow,’ said 
Robert. 

‘Yes,’ said the little doctor, putting his head to one side, ‘a 
clever man. Sir Robert ; thoughtful, but a little peculiar, you know.’ 

‘ He is a dear old boy ! ’ answered Robert warmly. ‘ But are you 
going away now ? You’ll come back to dinner, won’t you? And 
you must stay all night, you know.’ 

‘I am going,’ said the doctor, not without curiosity, ‘to visit a 
patient by the special command of Miss Blunt — that Mrs Moony, 
you know.’ 

‘ Oh, Mrs Moony,’ said Robert indifferently ; ‘ Mary is always 
fussing about her ; she is my sister’s pet invalid.’ And Robert 
laughed. 

‘ It is very good of Miss Blunt,’ said the doctor, satisfied in his 
own mind that Robert at least knew nothing of Mrs Moony. 
‘Well, Sir Robert, I’ll be back shortly,’ and the doctor got into 
the carriage, assisted by Appleby, who also placed a basket on the 
back seat. 

‘ Excuse the basket, please, doctor,’ said Appleby ; but Miss 
Blunt desired me to pack some wine, and send it down in the 
carriage to the poor woman.’ 

‘ Oh, certainly,’ said the little doctor, eyeing the basket, which 
was a large one. ‘ That will hold plenty, eh, Mr Appleby ? ’ 

Appleby smiled condescendingly. 

‘ Ladies will have their fads, you see, doctor,’ he said, and the 
doctor nodded, and the carriage drove away. 

As it did so a telegraph boy came up to the Hall door with a 
telegram for Sir Robert, and Appleby at once carried it to his 
master, who was just going into the smoking-room, with Don, as 
usual, at his heels. 

‘Telegram ?’ he said, looking round as Appleby addressed him, 
and he at once opened it, and then his colour changed. 

It was from Florence Blunt, who had seen the account of the ex- 
plosion at Dr Humphrey’s in the morning’s papers, and she had 
telegraphed to Robert to know if they were all safe. 

‘ Telegraph back,’ he read ; ‘ I am very anxious about you all.’ 
And as Appleby shut the room door behind him, Robert stood and 
read the words again and again as though they had some strange 
fascination for him. Presently Don, jealous of his absorbed 
attention, began jumping up and gave a little plaintive whine to 
attract his notice. 

‘It’s a message from your mistress, Don,’ said Robert, stooping 


252 Out of Eden. 

down to caress Don, ‘a message from your mistress and he laid 
his lips on the thin pink paper and kissed it, and then carefully 
locked away the words her hands had never touched. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

ROBERT’S FOLLY. 

Mary was very anxious and disturbed until Dr Watson returned 
from his visit to Mrs Moony’s. She kept walking up and down the 
long corridor, pausing sometimes outside Dr Arthur’s bedroom 
door, where she could hear Aunt Ann reading little bits out of the 
newspapers in her thin voice to her nephew ; for Aunt Ann de- 
clined to remain any longer with Mr Thirlwell, after his extra- 
ordinary remarks, she told Mary ; and the sympathising house- 
maid from Lansdowne Lodge, who had helped to support him 
during the fire, had been pressed into Mr Thirlwell’s service. 

Presently Mary heard the doctor return, and she ran down to 
meet him, and found that Appleby was about to assist him to a 
little refreshment at the sideboard. 

‘ I feel quite done up. Miss Blunt, I assure you,’ said the fat 
little doctor, rather ashamed of being caught. 

‘ Indeed, you must,’ said Mary kindly, ‘ I hope Appleby is look- 
ing after you. How is she?’ she added, in a lower tone, arid Dr 
Watson saw her anxiety very plainly depicted on her face. 

‘ Oh, she won’t live,’ answered the doctor ; ‘ but she is in no 
immediate danger.’ 

‘ No immediate danger?’ repeated Mary. 

‘ Oh no ; she’ll last a month or two yet ; she was in violent pain, 
poor soul, and that frightened Mrs Draper, but she’ll not die yet 
awhile.’ And as the doctor gave his opinion and emptied his wine- 
glass, Mary breathed a long sigh of relief. 

It was a respite she felt, a respite for a time at least, and she 
was thankful for that time. She thanked the doctor for going, and 
she told him to take care of himself ; and then she went back to Dr 
Arthur’s room and sat there until in the dusk she fell asleep, worn 
out by her long anxiety and watching. 

As she slept on. Dr Arthur, lying still and silent, knew by her 
regular breathing that she was asleep, and in his darkness a sweet 
vision rose again before him of Mary, as he had seen her once in 
Robert’s sick-room, with her pale gold hair unbound, and her lips 
a little apart, breathing as she was breathing now in her quiet rest. 

It was a beautiful picture then, and it rose fresh and fair before 
him now, never to be changed by Time’s cold touch. He remem- 
bered with a half-smile Mrs Draper saying his heavy footstep had 
awakened her, and very much the same thing presently happened, 
for Robert rapped at the door, and, not knowing Mary was asleep, 
walked in, and the noise he made startled her, and she jumped 
nervously up. 


253 


Robert's Folly, 

‘ What has happened ? ’ she said. ‘ Oh ! Robert.* 

‘ My dear, I am so sorry ; I did not know you were asleep,’ said 
Robert. ‘ And Miss Tomkins, too!’ For Aunt Ann had also 
been indulging in a doze in the easy-chair. 

‘ Oh, I am quite awake, Sir Robert,’ said Miss Tomkins, a little 
uneasy about what she called the ‘ sit ’ of her cap. ‘ Quite ; I was 
so pleased for Miss Blunt to have a little rest, as she was up all 
last night.’ 

‘Well, dear old fellow, and how are you?’ said Robert, putting 
his hand gently on Dr Arthur’s bandaged one. Who do you think 
is here, Arthur ? I met him just as I was coming back from the 
station.’ 

‘ Oh, you’ve been to the station?’ said Mary. 

‘Yes, I had a telegram to send, and just when I got home I 
found the great Larkins riding up to the door to inquire after you, 
Arthur.’ 

‘ And how is Larkins ?’ said Dr Arthur. 

* Splendid ; d’ye know, he is a clever little man ? He’s been up 
in town, I expect, on business with “ Young Harry,” as he now 
patronisingly calls his client.’ 

‘And how is “ Young Harry” then, and “Mrs Young Harry?”’ 
asked Dr Arthur. 

‘ Oh, he’s well enough, he says, but fears he has got among a 
bad lot ; at least from Larkins’s account. He’s taken to betting, 
and been pretty heavily bled one or twice, Larkins says.’ 

‘ Poor Florence,’ said Dr Arthur ; but Robert Blunt said nothing. 
He had been sitting on the edge of the bed talking to Dr Arthur, 
but when Arthur mentioned Florence’s name he got up and began 
walking about the room, taking up the medicine bottles and pre- 
tending to read the labels. 

‘And I’ve asked Larkins to stop to dinner, Molly,’ he said, 
presently. 

‘ Well, my dear,’ smiled Mary, ‘ I hope you’ll enjoy Larkins’s 
company.’ 

‘You’ll come down, won’t you, Molly? Do, like a good girl,’ 
said Robert. 

But Mary shook her head. 

‘We are all going to have tea together here,’ she said. ‘You 
look after Mr Larkins and the doctor, Robert ; and I will look after 
our invalids.’ 

Mary said these two last words very softly, and she took some iced 
lemonade up to Dr Arthur, and helped him to sit up in bed to drink it. 

‘ How good you are,’ he said gratefully ; and Robert also turned 
round and looked at Mary tending on their friend. 

‘ She is not a bad little woman, Arthur, is she, in spite of her 
temper?’ said Robert cheerily. ‘So you won’t come down to see 
poor Larkins, eh, Molly? Well, I hope your cook will give us 
something decent to eat.’ 

And Robert nodded good-naturedly and left the room ; but as 
he left it his face changed, and he sighed, a restless, weary sigh 
enough, as he walked along the corridor. 


254 Out of Eden. 

‘Why can’t I forget her?’ he was thinking; and then, with an 
effort and a bitter muttered word at his own folly, he went down- 
stairs to join Larkins, who was examining the pictures on the walls 
with great interest as he entered the room. 

‘You have some good bits here, Sir Robert,’ he said; ‘very 
good ; but my dear Sir Robert, I’ve been reflecting ; you were kind 
enough to ask me to remain to dinner ; nothing would have de- 
lighted me more, but with so much sickness and suffering in the 
house, shall I not be in the way?’ 

‘Not in the least ; my sister is head nurse, and she begs me to 
ask you to excuse her appearing. She has both the old ladies to 
look after, you know, and poor Humphrey ; but I am not a bit of 
use, and I shall be very glad of your company.’ 

‘ Then I shall be charmed to stay. Ah, Sir Robert, don’t think 
me too bold, but I cannot help expressing my admiration of your 
sister’s character.’ 

‘ She is a good girl,’ said Robert. 

‘ She is an angel ! ’ cried Larkins enthusiastically. ‘ Sir Robert, 
when I think of women like Miss Blunt ; when I compare them 
with Ms^ (and Larkins struck his breast contemptuously with his 
open hand), ‘with us, “with all my imperfections on my head,” as 
Hamlet has it, I feel unworthy to breathe the same air ! But such 
beings as Miss Blunt refine the air ; they make it purer, sweeter to 
a man’s nostrils, sir, and the longer one lives — and I am not a boy 
now. Sir Robert — the older one gets, so more and more does a man 
learn to respect a virtuous woman ; there are too many of the other 
sort, as we all know.’ And Larkins sighed. 

Robert only laughed in reply, but Larkins still had plenty to say, 
and during dinner he told story after story, and certainly made 
that repast less dreary to Robert than it would have been had he 
dined alone with the little doctor from Oniston. Larkins, in fact, had 
his wits about him, and when the doctor left them to look after his 
patients, with some adroitness Larkins turned the conversation to 
the subject that lay nearest to Robert’s heart. 

‘ I told you I dined in Chapel Street with Mr Harry and the 
ladies, did I not?’ quoth Larkins, perfectly remembering that he 
had already given this piece of information to Robert, and glancing 
for a moment with his bright eye to see the effect of his words. 

‘ Ah ! ’ (and he gave his head a little shake) ‘ I was sorry to see 
one thing ; I remember her since she was a child, you know ; 
a merry black-eyed, captivating child— and there’s not much real 
merriment about her now, poor girl — she’s changed, quite changed.’ 
Again Larkins shook his head, ‘There’s a worm i’ the bud.’ 

‘ Does she not look well ? ’ asked Robert, biting his lips, and 
nervously playing with his dinner napkin. 

‘She looks miserable! Sir Robert,’ said Larkins, ‘absolutely 
miserable 1 She tried to chat and smile, you know ; she is one of 
the sort we read of who went out with a smile to have their heads 
cut off in the old French times, but that kind of thing doesn’t take 
i» me. I can see behind the veil a bit, and I know this poor 
young thing has a broken heart ! Yes, Sir Robert, a broken heart, 


^Oh Dark, Dark, Dark, amid the Blaze of Noon / * 255 

and who can wonder at it ; who indeed?’ And once more Larkins 
shook his head. 

‘ Did she say anything ? Anything particular, I mean ? ’ asked 
Robert, with ill-concealed anxiety. 

‘ She asked all about Weirmere,’ answered Larkins, as if he were 
thinking, and he gently closed his brown eye to assist his inward 
contemplations. ‘Yes, she talked principally of Weirmere ; and — 
let me see — when her brilliant little lord loudly announced the 
happy fact to us all that he had passed from the remembrance of 
sublunary things by prolonged snores from the easy-chair, she 
asked a good many questions about you. Sir Robert. To be sure 
she did ! What you were doing ; how you were looking ; where 
you had been, and I don’t know all what ! You know what ladies 
are when they begin with their questions. And I told her — I must 
try to remember what I told her. Oh yes, I told her you had 
been dining at Wenman.’ 

‘Anything else?’ asked Robert, with a very poor attempt at 
jocularity. 

‘ She asked if there were any ladies there to meet you — any 
young ladies, and she sighed, poor thing ! Ah, it’s a sad case ; she 
made a great mistake, a terrible mistake ! ’ 

And so Larkins talked on. Did Robert ever suspect that 
Larkins said all this just to please him ? ‘ They fool me to the top 
of my bent.’ Did he remember that Larkins probably knew the 
whole story — the old story of his love for Florence Chester, and 
how she had thrown his love aside and married Harry Blunt for 
the inheritance that had passed away from him ? 

Robert Blunt was a sensible man, and he probably did remember 
all this, yet he sat there greedily drinking in everything Larkins 
cared to tell him. He kept the little lawyer late, and took him to 
the smoking-room, and pressed him to come again ; and before 
Larkins left Weirmere Hall that night Robert had appointed him 
agent to the property, with seven hundred a year, and Larkins 
naturally felt he had had a most successful visit. 

He smiled softly to himself as he rode home. 

‘Poor fellow!’ he thought; ‘he’s hard hit, terribly hard hit — 
I’m sorry for the little woman. Ah, she held the prize, and let it 
slip from her hand ! ’ 


CHAPTER XLIL 

‘OH DARK, DARK, DARK, AMID THE BLAZE OF NOON !* 

The next few weeks passed away very quietly at Weirmere. 
Robert rode about the property with Larkins, planning improve- 
ments and looking after repairs. He wished to be a model land- 
lord ; but there are difficulties in the way of being a model in any 
position in this world. And Robert soon found this to be the case. 
All his tenants seemed to want something, and every farmhouse 


256 ' OiU of Eden. 

was apparently in more or less a dilapidated condition. But 
Larkins was a sharp fellow, and while he was having his jest and 
his laugh with the farmers’ wives and daughters, he also had his 
brown eye wide open, and saw really what was required and what 
was not. 

‘ You are too generous and open-handed, my dear Sir Robert,’ 
he would tell Robert, who had perhaps been standing patiently 
listening to his tenants grumbling about this and that ; ‘ and it 
does not do to be too generous in this world, for people are apt to 
take advantage of it ; to feather their own nest, in fact.’ . 

Thus Larkins would advise, though it will be seen he did not 
object to make his own nest warm and comfortable. But he made 
himself useful to Robert, and knew how to turn his weak points to 
his own advantage. 

‘Ah,’ he said one day, as they were riding together through 
some very picturesque scenery, ‘ it seems just like yesterday since 
I remember meeting poor Chester and his favourite dark-eyed 
little girl riding on this very spot. Ay, just like yesterday ; and 
yet it’s ten years and more, for she was but a child, mounted on a 
little shaggy Scotch pony. Whatever poor Chester was, he was a 
good father, and devoted to his little Flo. Poor fellow ! I suppose 
he was tempted beyond his strength, Sir Robert, and never could 
retrieve his position.’ 

‘ It was very sad,’ said Robert gravely. 

‘Terrible ! A leap in the dark ; ay, ay, things might have been 
very different if he had lived. In that case, I expect Flo would 
never have married young Harry ; it was their change of position. 
The dread of poverty induced her, and then she did not know 
what he was. She never would have married him if she had 
known what he was.’ 

Robert made no answer. He rode on silent and absorbed, and 
Larkins had the conversation chiefly to himself. But this was by 
no means unpleasant to the little lawyer, for the sound of his own 
voice was exceedingly agreeable to his own ears. He was self- 
satisfied, and he had no doubt some reason to be so. He was 
riding a good horse (one of Robert’s), he had a good income, and 
he was going to have, no doubt, a good dinner at the Hall, for 
Robert almost invariably asked him to dine after one of their 
business inspections; and Larkins was quite agreeable to do. so, 
and to mingle adroit little allusions to poor Chester’s ‘dark-eyed 
little girl ’ during the courses. 

‘ I know I’m a fool,’ Robert told himself, and yet he went on 
being a fool, and never seemed tired of Larkins’s somewhat slightly 
embellished recollections of Westwood House and its former in- 
habitants. 

But though he yielded to his own weakness so far, Robert had 
never seen Florence ; never in fact gone ^up to town at all, since 
their last meeting in Chapel Street, before Christmas, when he had 
persuaded her to take one of the late Lady Blunt’s bracelets. 

He would willingly indeed have forgotten her, and was always 
telling himself that he would do so, and he went twice to dine at 


*‘ 0 h Darky Darky Darky amid the Blaze of Noon f* 257 

Vyenman Castle, and each time sat next Miss Ethel Curzon, and 
did his best to make himself agreeable to this young lady. 

And Miss Curzon did her best also to fascinate him. But in spite 
of her fair clear skin, her vivid blue eyes, and her soft, light hair, this 
girl did not win his heart. She did not understand the art somehow. 
Men flirted with her, but never lost their heads about her. 

‘ I believe it is because she has no heart,’ said her aunt, Lady 
Moreland, in matrimonial confidence to her lord. Lady Moreland 
herself was a plain woman, yet her husband was devoted to her, 
and she was the idol of her children. But she was a loving, tender 
wife and Tnother, and as we sow we reap. Miss Curzon would 
willingly have made a slave of Robert Blunt, though she might 
have thrown him over in town if it had suited her convenience. 
But Robert Blunt remained smilingly his own master in her case. 
He would have walked to London barefooted (if such an exertion 
had been possible or necessary) to catch a glimpse of Florence 
Blunt’s graceful head ; but he sometimes grumbled at the length of 
the ride across the hills to Wenman Castle, when he felt that 
courtesy called him there. 

But though he was always thinking of Florence he never sought 
her. He wrote to her to tell her about the explosion at Dr Hum- 
phrey’s after receiving her telegram, and Florence replied to his 
letter, and as the weeks passed on, Florence wrote twice to inquire 
after the invalids. 

There was nothing in these letters, and everyone at the Hall 
might have seen them, yet somehow Robert never cared to mention 
their arrival to Mary. A strange reserve had grown up between 
the brother and sister as regards Florence, and her name was 
rarely (if ever) mentioned between them. Yet Larkins knew that 
Robert heard occasionally from Mrs Harry Blunt, and Robert and 
Larkins frequently talked about her and her belongings. Business, 
of course, partly compelled them to do this, for Harry Blunt was 
always writing to Larkins for money, and always wanting his 
income in advance. 

Larkins advised Robert not to accede to this, pointing out very 
justly that though Robert had a large income, three thousand 
a year was a large slice out of it, and that his young brother ought 
to be able to live exceedingly well on it. 

‘ He is dabbling in the betting ring, that is the truth. Sir Robert,’ 
said Larkins, with a shake of his head, ‘ and he has neither the 
brains nor the money to do so successfully.’ 

So Larkins wrote to tell Harry (with Robert’s permission) that 
Sir Robert was making great improvements on the property, and 
that those improvements were necessarily very expensive, and that 
Sir Robert would, therefore, not be able conveniently to advance 
Mr Harry’s income to him, but that he would always receive it in 
due course. 

Harry Blunt was furious when he received this letter, and the 
unfortunate Florence had to bear the brunt of the storm. Then he 
took Bessie by the shoulders when she ventured to remonstrate 
with him, and fairly turned her out of the house. 

R 


258 Out of Eden, 

He would have no idle sisters-in-law hanging about the place, he 
said, and giving their advice gratis. He could not afford it. And 
poor Bessie was obliged to sneak in at the back door until a cab 
could be procured for her, and lodgings might be sought by one of 
the servants. 

Bessie, who was most indignant, wanted to write and tell Robert 
Blunt all this ; but Florence would not allow her to do so. 

‘ He would think we wanted more money, Bessie, if you did,’ she 
said, ‘ and I am ashamed enough already, for I am sure Harry is 
always writing to Mr Larkins to ask for money. I can give you 
some. Let Robert find out when he comes to town how Harry has 
behaved.’ 

‘ I am sure I wish he would come to town,’ said Bessie ; but 
Florence only smiled. She went to the window of the room, and 
thought of her dreary bondage, which each day seemed to grow 
more bitter and unendurable. How would it end t she kept think- 
ing, while Bessie indulged herself in very heartfelt abuse of her 
brother-in-law. 

This happened about the end of February, and in March or April 
Robert had more than once contemplated taking Mary up to town 
for a month or two. But with a house full of invalids, there were, 
he admitted to himself, grave difficulties in the way. Still he 
thought of it, and one day when he was calling at Wenman Castle, 
he said something about it to Miss Curzon, who smiled in her placid 
way. 

‘ We are all going up this month,’ she said, ‘and I am, of course, 
going home ; my home, you know, is in London ; my father. General 
Curzon, has a small house in Chapel Street.’ 

‘In Chapel Street, Park Lane.?’ asked Robert, with sudden 
interest. 

‘ Yes,’ said Miss Curzon, looking at Robert with her blue eyes ; 
‘ do you know anyone who lives there?’ 

‘ I know a lady— a relation,’ faltered Robert, ‘ and he was 
conscious that he coloured — ‘ Mrs Harry Blunt.’ 

‘Mrs Harry Blunt?’ repeated Miss Curzon. ‘Ah, Mr Harry 
Blunt is the son of the late Lady Blunt, is he not ?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Robert abruptly. 

‘ I remember him,’ said Miss Curzon ; ‘ rather an ugly youth, 
isn’t he ? Yes, I have heard of Mrs Harry Blunt.’ 

She had heard that Robert had been in love with the handsome 
Miss Chester in the days of her girlhood ; she had heard that Miss 
Chester had refused Robert and married young Harry Blunt, sup- 
posing him to be the heir of the property ; and she had heard that 
Robert Blunt had had a fever and nearly died in consequence. 
She did not know the whole truth of the story, perhaps, for we 
mostly hear but garbled versions of the tragedies or comedies of 
those around us, but she had heard enough to know that Mrs 
Harry Blunt would probably be a serious obstacle in her way if 
she still held to her purpose of marrying Robert. 

‘ You must call upon me,’ she said ; ‘ I have no mother, and my 
father is a most tiresome, disagreeable, old man— the typical old 


* 0 h Dark. Dark, Dark, amid the Blaze of Noon / ’ 259 

general with the gout in one foot, and all sorts of infirmities and 
tempers — and I lead a wretched life ; will you come and enliven 
me sometimes, when — you are tired of Mrs Harry Blunt?’ 

‘ I shall be charmed to do so,’ said Robert ; but shortly afterwards 
he went away, and Lady Moreland knew as he parted with her 
pretty niece that Ethel had certainly not succeeded in making Sir 
Robert Blunt in love with her. 

Robert felt annoyed as he rode home, greatly annoyed by Miss 
Curzon’s manner in speaking of Florence, and also to have learnt 
that they were such near neighbours in town. But when he reached 
the Hall something had occurred which, for the time at least, quite 
put Miss Ethel Curzon out of his mind. 

This had indeed been a most eventful day there. For some time 
previous Dr Arthur, who was now able to sit up, had urged both 
Dr Paget and Dr Watson to tell him their real opinion about his 
sight. He himself was full of grave and naturally miserable doubts. 
But still neither doctor would give a decided opinion, and at last 
Dr Arthur proposed that the next time Dr Paget came down to 
Weirmere that he should bring with him an eminent oculist. 

‘ Anything would be better than this uncertainty,’ he said ; ‘ I 
could bear it better if I knew the exact truth.’ 

He had borne it and all his suffering with wonderful courage and 
bravery, but another feeling (his warm, deep love for Mary) made 
the idea of loss of sight to him almost too terrible to be endured. 

He had been in complete darkness now week after week, week 
after week. Sometimes all his other life seemed like a dream to 
him, and this quiet dark one, lightened by Mary’s constant, tender 
care, the only existence he seemed to realise. But at other times 
impatient anguish seized on the man’s anxious heart, and he told 
himself that if he were indeed blind, that all that could now make 
life bright or pleasant to him must be ended for ever. 

So he begged the doctors to let him know the truth. The two 
men looked at each other sadly enough after they had left him, and 
Dr Paget said a pitying word. 

‘ Poor fellow, it’s a sad verdict to hear,’ he said, ‘ but I’ll bring 
Lorton down with me on Wednesday. It’s cruel, perhaps, to keep 
him longer in suspense.’ 

‘ Lorton ’ was a man with the greatest reputation as an oculist in 
London, and, therefore, Dr Paget wished him to see Dr Humphrey, 
and perhaps preferred that ‘ poor Humphrey ’ should hear his doom 
from other lips than his own. 

Thus it had been arranged that the three doctors were to arrive 
on this particular afternoon, when Robert Blunt had ridden over to 
call at Wenman Castle. Robert, in fact, was rather glad to be out 
of the way. Mary looked pale and nervous, and Dr Arthur could 
scarcely restrain his anxiety. J ust before the doctors were expected, 
Mary went into his room with a rose in her cold, trembling hand. 

‘ I have brought you a flower,’ she said, and he took it and the 
hand that held it in his own. 

He could not speak, he was so much overcome. He was a brave 
man, but what man is there who could wait unmoved to hear what 


26 o Out of Eden, 

he was about to hear. It meant the loss of everything to him ; 
this dear woman, his profession, even his daily bread. 

‘ God give me strength to bear it, if it must be,’ he faltered out, 
and as the words passed from his lips Mary gave a little start, for 
she heard the carriage that had been sent to the station to meet 
the doctors now drive up to the hall door. 

‘ Do you hear them ? ’ asked poor Arthur, hastily. 

‘ Yes, they have arrived,’ said Mary, and she pressed his hand 
and left him, and Dr Arthur, with an effort, summoned all his 
fortitude to his aid,' while Mary went to her own room and knelt 
there praying for him, knowing beforehand the cruel doom that he 
was to hear. 

For they told him there was no hope. Mr Lorton examined his 
eyes carefully, and then in a few words told him the truth. 

‘ Your eyesight is irreparably injured,’ he said ; ‘ in fact, it is gone ; 
I grieve very much to have to tell you this. Dr Humphrey, but 
I understand from Dr Paget that you wished to know my real 
opinion?’ 

‘ Yes, certainly,’ replied Dr Arthur ; ‘ it is better to know.’ 

And during the rest of the interview his voice never faltered, and 
he talked as calmly and quietly to the three doctors as if nothing 
had happened, though what they had just said seemed to him at 
that moment to be more bitter than death. 

At last they went away, and Mary, who had been watching 
for them, met them at the end of the corridor, pale, and visibly 
agitated. 

‘ You have told him ?’ she said, looking at Dr Paget. 

‘ Mr Lorton has told him,’ answered Dr Paget, ‘ and he has 
borne it like a brave man ; in fact, I may say with remarkable 
courage and fortitude ; ’ and he looked at Mr Lorton. 

Mr Lorton bowed. 

‘ Certainly,’ he said, ‘ with remarkable courage.’ He was won- 
dering who this beautiful young woman was who stood there pale 
and trembling, and evidently so deeply moved. 

‘ Dr Watson,’ said Mary the next moment, addressing the little 
man from Oniston, ‘ my brother is from home, so will you kindly 
see that these gentlemen have everything they require ? Will you 
excuse me ? ’ she added, with simple dignity, looking at the two 
strangers, ‘ for I would like to go now to my friend. Dr Humphrey.’ 

Of course, the doctors would excuse her. They said a few kindly 
words, and then Mary turned and left them, going at once hastily 
down the corridor until she came to Dr Arthur’s room. 

The doctors had left the door a little ajar, and as Mary entered 
the room she saw Dr Arthur sitting at the end of the couch, 
with his arms lying on the head of it, and his face hidden in his 
arms. It was the attitude of a man broken down ; of a man in 
misery and despair, and with a little cry Mary ran forward and laid 
her hand upon his neck. 

‘Arthur, dear Arthur,’ she said, ‘ they have told you?’ 

‘Yes, Mary,’ he answered, lifting up his head, ‘they have told 
ine— I am blind ! ’ 


^Oh Dark^ Dark, Dark, amid the Blaze of Noon /’ 261 

‘ I have always known it,’ said Mary, ‘ dear Arthur, I have always 
known it.’ And she put her arms round his neck and drew his head 
against her breast. 

‘ You have always known it repeated Dr Arthur. 

‘Yes, dear, always — and, Arthur — ’and she knelt down beside 
him, ‘ I am going to see for you ; my eyes are going to be your 
eyes, and your eyes mine. In fact, I am going to marry you, my 
dear,’ she continued, with sweet tenderness, ‘ and I am sure you 
cannot refuse me.’ 

Then Dr Arthur fairly broke down, and lay there sobbing on her 
neck. 

‘ My dear ! my dear ! ’ he said, and that was all. 

‘ We will be ever so happy,’ went^on Mary ; ‘ you know I have 
always cared for you — oh, so dearly, Arthur ! — and — when I was a 
stupid girl, and said “No” to you that day by the lake side, my 
heart was saying “ Yes ” all the time. But there is no folly between 
us now ; we love each other, and nothing can separate us.’ 

But now Dr Arthur lifted his head. 

‘ Mary,’ he said, in a broken voice, ‘ my love, my dear, for I have 
loved no other woman all my life ; but — but I am not going to take 
advantage of your sweet nature. I am not going to be utterly 
selfish, because you are utterly unselfish. You would give your 
sweet young life to me, because you pity me so deeply that you 
would make any sacrifice to comfort me, but I will not accept such 
a sacrifice. You are a beautiful girl, the world is all before you. 
You must leave me, my dear, but you have comforted me ; it’s 
something to remember that you have cared for me enough to say 
what you have done ; something to think that had it pleased God 
to spare my sight we might have been happy together at last. As 
it is, it must not be. You have seen me unmanned, Mary; but I 
will get reconciled to it, dear, and you must come sometimes and 
talk to your old friend, even when you are a great lady, and — and 
he is a blind old man.’ 

‘ You have made me cry,’ said Mary, after a little pause ; ‘ but I 
am not going to cry. You get your own way generally, you know. 
Dr Arthur, because you are a man and strong-minded, and all that 
kind of thing, but you are not going to get your own way with me. 
I won’t be sent away. I will take care of you, and see for you, and 
perhaps tease you a little bit too ! I’m quite in earnest, and you 
can’t refuse me ; and about money, you know it is all right, because 
Robert has settled a fortune on me, and, in fact, you must just marry 
me.’ And Mary hid her sweet, blushing face on his breast. 

He took her in his arms and kissed her again and again. 

‘ What will Robert say .? ’ he said, presently. 

‘ Robert will say, quite right ; Robert is too noble, too dear, not 
to wish his sister to marry the man she cares for ’ (she whispered 
the last three words in his ear). ‘ You are Robert’s friend ; he 
cares for no one as much as he cares for you. Robert will be 
glad.’ 

‘ Well, we must ask him,’ said Dr Arthur. ‘ I can’t realise my 
happiness yet, Mary. Do you really, really love me V 


262 


Out of Eden. 

‘ Yes, I really, really love you,’ said Mary ; ‘ and now I will go 
and see if Robert has come home, and he will come and tell you 
that he loves you too.’ 

She went and met Robert, just as he was returning from his ride, 
and she took him into the study and told him her news ; and for a 
few minutes, it must be admitted, Robert felt disappointed. 

‘ You are a handsome young girl, Mary,’ he said, looking at his 
sister. ‘ Are you so sure of your own feelings as to make this 
sacrifice, for remember, after all, it is a great sacrifice.'” 

‘ I am quite sure,’ said Mary firmly. ‘ You are as bad as poor 
Arthur himself ; he, too, talked of our marriage as a sacrifice. It 
is no sacrifice to a woman to marry the man she loves.’ 

‘ But a hopeless blind man, Mary. He is a good fellow, I know, 
a dear, good fellow, but — ’ 

‘I will listen to no “buts,”’ said Mary, kissing her brother. 

■ He asked me to marry him long ago, when I had neither name 
nor fortune ; now, when I have both, I have asked him, and so, 
my dear Bob, you must just give your consent.’ 

Robert shrugged his shoulders and kissed her. 

‘Well,’ he said, ‘a wilful woman, you know. If you will go and 
make proposals, what can a poor man do ? However, my dear, if 
you are in earnest,’ he added, ‘ I can only hope and trust you will 
be happy, and I believe you will be, Mary. You are a good girl, 
though I expect poor Arthur will never be able again to say his 
little finger is his own.’ And with a good-natured laugh Robert 
left her, and went to speak to his friend. And in a few kindly 
words he gave the consent that Mary had asked for. 

‘ So you and Miss Molly are going to make a match of it,H hear, 
Arthur,’ he said, in his genial, hearty way. ‘ Well, you’re a lucky 
fellow. She is a girl in a thousand.’ 

‘ I know that, Robert,’ answered the blind man, stretching out 
his hand to take Robert’s ; ‘ she is so far beyond me, so far above 
me in every way, that I told her that I would not accept her 
generous love. But — ’ 

‘ She over-persuaded you,’ laughed Robert. ‘ My dear fellow, 
women always get their own way, you know, about these things.’ 

‘ She has made me but too happy,’ said Dr Arthur, with quiver- 
ing lips. ‘ I cannot understand it. I love her most dearly ; more 
dearly than I can tell you. Still — ’ 

‘ Then it is all right,’ said Robert, in a changed voice, as Dr 
Arthur paused, overcome by his emotion. ‘ Life isn’t worth much 
if a man’s heart is far away from him, and I am glad that you and 
dear Molly will have a happier fate.’ 

And so they settled it, and presently Mary came in softly, and 
put one hand in her lover’s and the other in Robert’s. 

‘ I’ve been telling Arthur,’ said Robert, trying to speak lightly, 
‘ what a little tyrant you are, and how you have ordered me about 
since you were a small chit so high, and that now, no doubt, you 
will take to ordering him. So I think I’ll leave him to get ac- 
customed to it I’ And with a very tender smile on his face Robert 
left them. 


Mary's Engagement, 263 

‘ How dear he is ! ’ said Mary, looking after him. * Ah, Arthur, 
if he were but as happy as we are.’ 

‘And will you never change, Mary — never, through the long 
years of life, with but a blind husband by your side.^’ 

‘ Never,’ whispered Mary ; ‘not when we die, when you will see 
again, Arthur, and we will be always together amid the brightness 
and glory of a better world than this.’ 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

MARY’S ENGAGEMENT. 

Mary’s engagement caused great excitement at Weirmere, the two 
old ladies falling weeping into each other’s arms when they were 
told of it. Why they should shed tears it is impossible to explain, 
for they were both really delighted about it. But the old have a 
strange fear of any change ; they dread the unknown, while the 
young so recklessly encounter it. 

‘ But she’s a sweet girl,’ said sister Ann, drying her eyes and 
becoming more cheerful, after the first little shock had subsided. 

‘ She’s a baronet’s daughter, certainly,’ said Mrs Humphrey ; 
‘yes, no one can deny that.’ 

‘ And, I hear,’ twittered sister Ann — ‘ of course I am not mer- 
cenary, and our dear Arthur is far from mercenary, but still I hear 
she is to have a fine fortune, fifteen thousand pounds, I am told, 
sister, and, of course, that makes a difference.’ 

‘No doubt it does,’ replied Mrs Humphrey, ‘and now especially 
after Arthur’s accident ; till his eyes are better, of course, he can- 
not carry on his profession.’ 

Alas ! they had never dared to tell the old lady that her son was 
blind for evermore. They had hidden this from her ; they had 
talked of hope when there was no hope, and Mrs Humphrey lived 
on in the happy delusion that Arthur would get well, and that she 
would get well, and that they would all go back to their old life at 
Lansdowne Lodge, and that perhaps Lady Moreland even would 
call there to congratulate them on their happy return. 

This last idea was so invigorating that she insisted on getting 
out of bed and being dressed, but scarcely was her elaborate toilet 
complete, when she fell on the floor in a dead faint from over- 
exertion. 

Poor sister Ann’s terror on this occasion was pitiful, but still a 
day or two later the valiant old lady would be up again. 

‘ I must throw it off, sister,’ she told Miss Ann, and the very 
same thing happened a second time ; whereupon Dr Watson told 
Miss Tomkins that she was not to allow her sister to rise ; that 
she was perfectly unfit to do so ; that, in fact, she was in a very 
dangerous condition, and might sink at any time. 

So poor Mrs Humphrey was forced to lie in bed, and was in bed 


264 Out of Eden. 

when they told her her son was engaged to Mary Blunt. Sister 
Ann told her, and, therefore, as the two old ladies were alone, they 
indulged in a few tears to begin with. Then they remembered 
that Mary was a dear girl, a girl with money, and a baronet’s 
daughter ! And so, when Mary herself came into the old lady’s 
room, sweet, blushing, and happy, and knelt down by the bed, Mrs 
Humphrey stretched out her withered white hand and placed it 
on her fair head. 

‘ May God bless and keep you both,’ she said; ‘may He watch 
over you, and make you happy, and restore my Arthui^s sight and 
strength.’ 

For a moment Mary looked up, surprised ; ’she had forgotten 
Mrs Humphrey did not know the extent of the calamity that had 
befallen her son ; but the next moment she remembered. 

‘Until then I will see for him, mother,’ she said, in her sweet, 
pure voice ; and as the words passed her lips, Aunt Ann — who 
knew — flung her arms round Mary’s neck, and, amid her tears, 
kissed and blessed her also. 

‘ Aunt Ann,’ said Mary softly, as she returned the kind spinster’s 
kiss ; and so she was accepted by Arthur’s family, and regarded 
ever after by both the old ladies with extreme pride and affection. 

In the meantime Robert had been thoughtfully reviewing the 
whole situation. He loved Mary too much ; he was too unselfish 
to regret any change that was for her happiness ; but, all the same, 
he knew that her marriage would leave his own home dreary and 
loveless. He thought once of asking Mary and her husband to 
live with him at the Hall ; but Arthur Humphrey was not a man 
to care for such an arrangement, and then Robert suddenly re- 
membered Westwood House. 

This house had never been occupied since poor Mr ChesteFs 
melancholy end, when his young daughters had gone to live with 
Lady Blunt. It was a good house, with many modern improve- 
ments, and Mr Larkins had of late more than once cast a covetous 
eye upon it. 

He went so far, indeed, as to ‘sound’ Robert on the subject, 
during one of their rides over the estates. 

‘And poor Chester’s house,’ he asked ; ‘ have you any tenant in 
view for it ? ’ 

‘ No ; not at present,’ answered Robert. 

* It’s a nice little spot,’ continued Larkins contemplatively, half- 
closing his brown eye. ‘ I suppose poor Chester, as agent of the 
property, held it rent free ? ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Robert briefly. 

‘ It’s the usual custom,’ continued Larkins ; ‘and it’s conveniently 
situated for the agent’s residence — built for it, I should say.’ 

Still Robert did not take the hint, and Larkins was quite sharp 
enough to know that Robert understood very well what he meant. 
So he dropped the subject, but not the idea. It occurred to him 
whenever he passed Westwood House, and whenever he thought 
of fair Mary Blunt. 

But the accident ^t Pr Humphrey’s and Mary’s close attendance 


Mary's Rngageine 7 it 265 

on the poor sufferers from the explosion had kept her out of 
Larkins’s way. But he heard the news of Mary’s engagement to 
Arthur Humphrey with as keen a sense of disappointment and 
annoyance as it was almost possible for a man of his selfish, 
self-satisfied nature to feel. 

He admired her for one thing ; for another he wished much to 
be the brother-in-law of Sir Robert Blunt, and the indirect owner 
and investor of the fifteen thousand pounds that Robert had settled 
on his sister. 

‘ And to marry a blind fellow — incredible ! ’ said Larkins, when 
he first heard the news, forgetting that one of his own eyes, with 
its glassy stare, did not answer any other purpose than that of 
ornament. He would not believe it at first ; but when he next 
saw Robert Blunt he heard that it was actually true, and also that 
Robert had fixed on a tenant for Westwood House. 

‘ I will keep my sister near me,’ he said, ‘ if I can persuade 
Humphrey to live there.’ And Larkins with difficulty suppressed 
his feelings. His face lengthened — and no wonder, to lose a wife 
and a house at one blow ; but after a moment’s reflection, with a 
sickly smile, Larkins recovered himself sufficiently to offer his con- 
gratulations. 

‘Well, he’s a lucky fellow. Sir Robert,’ he said, ‘a very lucky 
fellow. Miss Blunt is a beautiful girl, and as good as she is 
beautiful. See what fancy is! Ah! who would have thought it?’ 
And Larkins sighed. 

‘ Humphrey wanted to marry her long ago, it seems,’ said 
Robert, ‘ before she or the world knew of our poor mother’s 
marriage, and Mary would not have him then. Now, you see 
when he is blind and in trouble, poor fellow, I expect she asked 
him.’ And Robert laughed. 

“‘O woman, in our hours of ease,”’ said Larkins, with half a 
smile and half a sigh. ‘ Well, Sir Robert, I hope they will be 
happy. She deserves to be.’ 

‘I am sure they are happy,’ answered Robert, and he also 
sighed. ‘After all, Larkins, you know, life isn’t worth much unless 
one has a crumb or two of happiness to sweeten it.’ 

‘ And one man likes his crumb in one shape and another man in 
another,’ said Larkins philosophically. ‘Ay, we’re strange crea- 
tures, Sir Robert, and from old mother Eve downwards the for- 
bidden fruit has always seemed pleasant to our palates.’ And 
Larkins laughed. 

But Robert frowned in reply. He thought it was a liberty of 
Larkins to say this, though he was for ever encouraging the little 
man to talk of the ‘ forbidden fruit.’ But Robert did not care to 
hear it jested about ; he was too conscious of his own weakness to 
suffer another man to approach the subject in so coarse a fashion. ' 
Robert liked to hear of ‘ Chester’s dark-eyed little girl ’ riding on 
her Scotch pony, but he did not like to hear allusions which at best 
he considered ill-timed. 

So he did not ask Larkins to remain to dinner (as was his usual 
custom) on this occasion. He went upstairs in the gloaming and 


266 Out of Eden. 

sat with Arthur and Mary, and saw Mary’s hand fondly lying in 
her lover’s with secret sadness of heart. He could not help envy- 
ing these two — this perfect love that triumphed over blindness, 
sorrow, and even time. Mary’s simple faith and affection passed 
the gloomy portals of the grave. She would always be with 
Arthur, she told him, and as her soft cheek lay against his the man 
silently lifted up his heart to God, and prayed that this sweet gift 
might be given him for evermore. 

‘Have you told Arthur, Mary,’ said Robert presently, ‘my 
scheme about Westwood House ? ’ 

Yes, Mary had told Arthur, and the three now sat and discussed 
the subject together. It was no use thinking of rebuilding the 
house at Thistlehill, they agreed, and finally they settled that 
Arthur and Mary were to pay a small rent for Westwood House. 
Robert was unwilling to accept any rent ; but Dr Arthur insisted 
on this, and also on settling on Mary the money which the old 
doctor to whom he had succeeded had left him. This was more 
than four thousand pounds, and Dr Arthur had saved another 
thousand or two, and he proposed to settle this also on his future 
wife. 

‘ I will see Howard about your money, Mary,’ said Robert, ‘ and 
I have some other business with him ; so I think I’ll run up to 
town before the end of the week.’ 

‘ Couldn’t the lively Larkins manage it ? ’ asked Mary. 

‘ I prefer to see old Howard about anything serious,’ said 
Robert. ‘ The lively Larkins is very well, but I would rather see 
Howard.’ 

He did not care indeed that Larkins should know anything 
about ‘ the other business ’ which he meant to transact in town. 
He was going to make his will, and there were certain clauses 
intended to be made in it which he did not wish Larkins to 
know of. 

‘ And your mother and aunt ? ’ asked Robert, after sitting in 
silence for a few moments thinking moodily enough. 

‘ Our house is to be theirs, their home ours,’ said Mary. 

‘And you are satisfied with this arrangement.?’ continued 
Robert. 

‘ It is her own arrangement, my dear fellow,’ said Dr Arthur. 
‘ She has talked me over, for I confess I do not care for these joint 
households, and I’m afraid Mary will find the old ladies sometimes 
rather trying.’ 

‘ Dear Arthur,’ said Mary, ‘your mother is old, and she has few 
pleasures left, and one of these is to be with you, and I think it 
would be very selfish of us not to wish her to be with us. Yes, 
Bob, it’s all settled ; we are all going to live together.’ 

‘And leave me alone?’ said Robert. ‘Well, my dear, have it 
your own way ; and, by-the-bye, while we are talking of it, you 
and I had better walk over to Westwood to-morrow morning, for I 
suppose the house will want regularly doing up.’ 

The brother and sister did go the next morning to the house, 
which had been shut up since Bessie and Florence Chester had 


Arrangements, 267 

left it, and Robert grew very silent as they went through the 
familiar rooms, which now looked so changed and neglected. 

How well Robert, and Mary too, remembered every spot ! 
They were thinking of the same person as they pretended to look 
at the walls and consider which room need be re-papered and 
which did not require it. They went to the window, and there, 
wet and damp, was the very seat where Mary and Florence had 
sat in the sunlit garden, when Harry Blunt had come in with his 
gun and his dogs on his ill-omened wooing. 

Everything reminded them of Florence ; the gun-room, where 
Robert had found her smiling for the first time on the ordinary 
face of the young man who was now her husband. It was a 
hateful recollection, and Mary stealing a glance at Robert’s face, 
saw a settled frown there, and knew some of the bitterness which 
filled her brother’s heart. 

^ ‘We’ll come back some other time, I think, Robert,’ she said ; 
* it’s cold, isn’t it V 

‘Yes, it is cold,’ Robert answered, and he shivered and was 
glad to go away. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

ARRANGEMENTS. 

Robert went up to London a few days after this, and Mary went 
back alone to Westwood House, and gave her orders to paperers 
and whitewashers. Dr Arthur wished to be married as soon as 
possible, for he told Mary he thought Robert must be heartily sick 
of having his house turned into an hospital by this time, and he 
also was uneasy about the state of his mother’s health. 

These arrangements were of course all discussed in the servants’ 
hall, and the friendly housemaid from Lansdowne Lodge confided 
one day to poor Thirlwell that it was a settled thing that the 
‘master’ (meaning Dr Arthur) was going to marry Miss Blunt. 

‘ And very soon too, they say,’ said the housemaid, though the 
next minute she cried out, — ‘ Why ! Mr Thirlwell, what’s the 
matter? You’re not ill surely?’ poor Thirlwell having suddenly 
turned a bluish-grey colour on hearing the announcement. 

For a few moments Thirlwell made no answer, but he wiped his 
forehead with his handkerchief, and showed other signs of extra- 
ordinary agitation. 

‘ They say he wanted to marry her long ago,’ continued the 
housemaid ; ‘when Sir Robert was ill, and he used to go so much 
to the cottage, you remember. Well, it’s a good thing, poor man, 
that he’s got a wife to take care of him now that he’s blind.’ 

‘Yes, it’s a good thing,’ repeated Thirlwell, in a hollow voice. 

‘ I’m told that they are going to live at Westwood House,’ said 
the housemaid, ‘ and Miss Blunt’s been seeing about papering, and 
that sort of thing. 


268 Out of Eden, 

And upon this poor Thirlwell groaned aloud. 

‘ Is it true, then ?’ he said, — ^truef^ 

‘ Of course, it’s true,’ said the housemaid. ‘ Miss Ann told me 
herself. But what’s the matter, Mr Thirlwell ? Why, I think you 
must have been in love with her yourself ! ’ And the housemaid 
giggled. 

Thirlwell made no reply. He waved his hand theatrically to 
indicate that he would prefer to be alone, and so the housemaid 
left him, and Thirlwell sank down on the bed with a groan of 
despair. 

‘ It is all over, then,’ he said, '‘My dreain! I am awake now ! 
daylight is shining ! I can see it all only too plainly ! It is the 
revolving wheel of fate. I did him the cruellest wrong a man can 
do another — now he has done me the cruellest wrong. I took 
his eyes — he has broke my ’art. Well, he has to live without eyes, 
and so I must live without a ’art ! ’ And Thirlwell gave a de- 
spairing laugh. 

After a little while, however, more manly thoughts came to his 
aid, and he implored himself to overcome despair at the call of 
duty. 

‘Joseph Thirlwell,’ he said, ‘ be a man ! you must live ! many a 
man has lived after a disappointed love ! What is love ? 

“ Love free as air, at sight of human ties, 

Spread his light wings and in a moment flies,” 

I had no money for human ties, but she had — there is the sting ; 
yes, she had means and beauty, but they are not for me ! I 
must get over it — I must rouse myself. Joseph, rouse thyself ! 
Well, I’ll consider myself roused — now, what shall I do ?’ 

So after a while he determined to go and talk to Dr Humphrey. 
He had never seen him since the miserable hour when Robert and 
Mary had carried Dr Arthur’s senseless body past him in the 
garden at Lansdowne Lodge, Thirlwell’s own injuries being so 
severe, and his depression and misery so great, that the doctors 
had forbidden any interview between the two men to take place. 
Dr Arthur had more than once sent him a kindly message, but on 
these occasions Thirlwell had always declared it was ‘ heaping 
coals, scuttlefulls, on his head.’ 

But now since such great happiness had come to Dr Humphrey, 
poor Thirlwell thought he could face him. He therefore once 
more summoned his friend the housemaid to his aid, and sent her 
with a message to Dr Arthur to know if he would receive him. 

‘ With pleasure,’ was the answer the housemaid brought back ; 
and so, trembling and really heartsick, and clinging to the house- 
maid’s arm for support, for he was terribly weak, poor Thirlwell 
was ushered into Dr Arthur’s presence. 

He was so overcome at seeing him, seeing him blind and 
changed, that he could not speak a single word, and it was the 
friendly housemaid who told Dr Arthur that he was there. 

‘ Here’s Mr Thirlwell come to see you, doctor,’ said the girl, not 
without feeling, and then Dr Arthur rose and held out his hand. 


A rrangements, 269 

‘Are you there, my poor fellow ?’ he said. ‘Well, let us shake 
hands.’ 

Then Thirlwell went forward and placed his cold clammy hand 
in the doctor’s. 

‘ I — I can’t tell you what I feel, sir,’ he said, and a moment later 
fairly began to sob aloud. 

‘ Hush ! don’t give way like that,’ said Dr Arthur kindly. 
‘ Come, Thirlwell, it was an accident.’ 

‘ It was fatal curiosity, sir,’ said Thirlwell, trying to compose 
himself. ‘ I — I was like poor Eve — I was tempted, and I fell.’ 

‘Well, never mind Eve just now; how about the future, Thirl- 
well ? I can’t go on with my practice now, you know.’ 

‘ No,’ said Thirlwell, much moved. 

‘And I’ve been thinking. You are a favourite about here, I be- 
lieve — would you like to buy the practice at a nominal price .^’ 

‘ I — I have not the means,’ answered Thirlwell, with a sort of 
sob at the idea of his own impecuniosity. ‘ I — I have expectations, 
though distant. I don’t wish to blame my parents, but I don’t 
know why I was born.’ 

‘Nonsense! my dear fellow — born ! why, you were born to try 
to do your duty, of course, and make the best of your opportunities, 
and I think this is one for you. And about money, we will see 
how you get on.’ 

Upon this Thirlwell became more cheerful. He was deeply 
touched also by Dr Arthur’s kindness. Dr Arthur was so happy 
he felt he must be kind to all the world, and he was sorry also for 
this stupid, good-hearted young doctor, who nevertheless was 
clever enough at his profession, and a favourite with the ladies 
round Weirmere. 

After a while they settled it. If a suitable house could be found 
in the neighbourhood, Mr Thirlwell was to carry on Dr Hum- 
phrey’s practice, and Dr Humphrey displayed singular generosity 
about the monetary part of the arrangement. While they wei^ 
still discussing it, Mary, looking both happy and handsome, came 
into the room, and held out her hand kindly to Mr Thirlwell. 

‘ I am glad to see you so much better, Mr Thirlwell,’ she 
said. 

Thirlwell stammered and grew red, too much agitated to reply. ^ 

‘ We have been talking of business, Mary,’ said Dr Arthur ; ‘ if 
we can find a house for him, Mr Thirlwell is going to carry on the 
practice.’ 

‘ That’s very nice,’ said Mary ; ‘and a house — wouldn’t our old 
house by the lake do ? ’ 

‘ The very thing, if Robert would let it,’ said Dr Arthur. 

‘ I think he would,’ answered Mary ; and then she added, 
smiling and looking at Mr Thirlwell, ‘ and I think I know a house- 
keeper too for you, Mr Thirlwell ; she was always praising you and 
saying how good-looking you are — Mrs Draper.’ 

‘ Oh 1 ’ said Thirlwell, and he tried to smile. 

‘ She’s not there now, though, is she ?’ asked Dr Arthur ; ‘ she’s 
with that poor Mrs Moony.’ 


2J0 Out of Edeit. 

‘Yes,’ answered Mary, and both her voice and the expression of 
her face changed. 

‘ Oh, well, she’ll not be there long,’ continued Dr Arthur ; ‘ so if 
Thirlwell has any fancy in that way — ’ And he laughed. 

‘ Not long ?’ repeated Mary. 

‘No, my dear ; Watson was telling me about Mrs Moony ; her 
disease is making rapid strides.’ 

Mary sighed deeply, then she looked wistfully and tenderly at 
Dr Arthur. 

‘What is the matter, Mary?’ he asked ; for the subtle instincts 
of love told him something was amiss. 

She did not reply for a moment ; she was thinking ‘ if I might 
tell him ; ’ then she remembered the heavy responsibility that such 
confidence would call upon him to share. 

‘ Not until he is well at least,’ she determined, and so she began 
talking of other things, and by-and-by Mr Thirlwell went away re- 
lieved in his mind to a certain extent as to his own future. 

After he was gone Mary sat by Dr Arthur and told him what 
they were doing to ‘ our house.’ Her voice grew softer as it 
lingered on the sweet word, and as he drew her nearer to him and 
talked of the days that were to come, Mary forgot her secret care, 
and listened smilingly when he asked her why they should wait. 

‘ I fancy a change would do me good now,’ he said, smiling also, 
‘ and I want you to go with me, Mary.’ 

‘ Of course I will go with you,’ she answered. 

‘ Then, of course, we must be married,’ he continued, and the 
end of this conversation was that they agreed to be married very 
shortly, and Mary sat down and wrote to Robert at his hotel in 
town, to inquire if such and such a date would be convenient to 
him to be present at the ceremony. 

Robert’s reply arrived two days later. Yes, he would, of course, 
be down on such a date, if they were determined to be married so 
soon. 

The reason Mary had given for such haste was certainly a good 
one — that the doctors thought a change of air would be beneficial 
to Arthur. Such were the contents of Robert’s letter, but there 
was a postscript that caused Mary to bite her lips, and absolutely 
grow pale. 

'‘P.S. — By-the-bye, my dear Molly, Florence and Miss Bessie 
Chester wish to be present at your wedding. I called the other 
day in Chapel Street, and saw our amiable relation, Mr Harry, and 
the two sisters. Florence was very much interested about your 
marriage, and said she would like to come down to it, and I could, 
of course, under the circumstances, only ask them all to do so. I 
expect Master Harry will not, however, make his appearance on 
the 17th, but Florence and Bessie Chester will, if you have no 
objections.- I told them it had to be a very quiet affair on account 
of Arthur, but Florence said she only wished to see you, R. B.* 


The Eve of the Weddings 


271 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 

When we love a person very much, or are very much indebted to 
anyone, to refuse to accede to an expressed wish of theirs is at best 
very painful. Robert had put Mary in this position by his post- 
script. Her first idea was absolutely to decline to endorse Robert’s 
invitation to Florence and Bessie. 

‘ I cannot have them here, Arthur,’ she told Dr Arthur, with some 
of her old petulance. 

‘ But, my dear, it’s Robert’s house, we must remember,’ said Dr 
Arthur. 

‘ Why does he want her here ? ’ said Mary, almost passionately. 
‘ Oh ! Arthur, ill will come of it. I will tell him she cannot come.’ 

Dr Arthur took her hand. 

‘ I am sorry he has asked her,’ he said, ‘ but what can we say 
about it, you know, my dear.^ Robert could not withdraw his 
invitation without making no end of annoyance and quarrelling ; 
and, Mary, seeing her here, and seeing her in Chapel Street, is 
very much the same thing, you know.’ 

‘ He should not go to Chapel Street,’ said Mary indignantly. 

Dr Arthur shrugged his shoulders. 

‘ Get him a wife, my dear,’ he said. ‘ Wouldn’t that pretty girl 
you meet at Lord Moreland’s do?’ 

‘ Miss Curzon? I wish he would marry her; I wish he would 
marry anyone ; if Florence Blunt comes to our wedding, it will 
make me miserable.’ 

And Mary began to cry. 

Nevertheless Florence Blunt did come to Mary’s wedding; for, 
as Dr Arthur justly pointed out, Robert had a perfect right to ask 
whom he pleased to his own house. But he had not intended to 
ask Florence, for he knew that Mary would not care that he should 
do so, and his affection for Mary was very true. 

It had come about exactly as he had written in his postscript. 
He had called at Chapel Street to tell Florence of Mary’s en- 
gagement to Dr Arthur, and he had found the husband and wife 
together, for a wonder, in the little drawing-room. 

‘ You must be sure to ask us to the wedding,’ Florence had said, 
after he had told her his news. 

‘ Would you come ? ’ said Robert, smiling. 

‘ I would not miss it for worlds ! ’ answered Florence, in her pretty 
way. ‘ Dear Mary, I am so glad she is happy.’ 

And Florence suppressed a little sigh. 

‘They seem both wonderfully happy considering the circum- 
stances,’ said Robert. 

‘ Humph ! they’ll find out their mistake by-and-by,’ remarked 
Harry, in his thick voice. 

‘ Harry’s experience of married life, you see ! ’ said Florence, with 
a little shrug. 


272 Out of Eden. 

Marry looked at his handsome wife half-sullenly, half-savagely. 

‘Yours, too, isn’t it?’ he said; and then, in his idle, lounging 
way, he got up and prepared to leave the room. 

‘ You had better come to dinner, hadn’t you ?’ he said, looking at 
Robert ; but Robert either had or pleaded an engagement. 

‘ I, too, am going now,’ he said, rising also ; ‘ then I must really 
tell Mary you will come to the wedding, Florence?’ he continued, 
looking at Florence. 

‘ Yes, really,’ she answered ; ‘ I would like to see Weirmere 
again — ^just once again.’ 

This was how Robert’s postscript came to be written ; the post- 
script that caused poor Mary'such bitter tears. But upon reflection 
she, too, saw that it was impossible to make any objection to 
Robert’s invited guests. And when a very kind letter came from 
Florence to tell her how pleased she was to hear of her happiness, 
Mary’s heart grew softer to this dark-eyed woman, whom she justly 
esteemed had saddened her brother’s life. 

This dear brother came down to Weirmere two days before the 
wedding literally laden with presents for the bride. Robert had 
bought Mary a magnificent dinner service, and more silver forks 
and spoons than would ever be required in the proposed modest 
household at Westwood. But this was by no means all. Assisted 
by the taste of Florence and Bessie, he had purchased so many 
expensive trifles that Mary declared her house would be ‘just 
perfect,’ and she could scarcely find words to tell him how deeply 
she felt all this thoughtful kindness. 

Robert laughed and jested more than usual after his return ; but 
there was an odd nervousness in his manner when he mentioned 
the time that Florence and Bessie had arranged to arrive, and do 
what she could not to allow Robert to see her annoyance, Mary 
was conscious that she betrayed it ; for a moment later Robert 
took her hand. 

‘ Don’t be vexed, Molly,’ he said ; ‘ I couldn’t help it without 
being rude, and you do not wish me to be rude to Florence, I 
suppose ?’ 

‘ Oh no, no, Robert,’ said Mary, and she kissed him ; ‘ only — ’ 
And she paused, distressed. 

‘Only nonsense!’ said Robert lightly. ‘Come, madam bride- 
elect, where are you going to put your visitors ?’ 

Mr Thirlwell had luckily vacated his room by -this time, and had 
gone to visit his ‘ people in Scotland ’ for a change, and thus they 
had an additional apartment to dispose of, and Mary and the 
housekeeper arranged for the accommodation of the sisters without 
any difficulty. 

They had settled with Robert to arrive at Weirmere by the mid- 
day train on the day before the wedding, and they were to return 
the day after it. Harry Blunt had only given a very unwilling 
consent to their going at all ; but he did not care to offend Robert 
by refusing it. 

‘ What made you ask yourself as you did ? ’ he said to Florence. 
* Confound you ! you’re always running after that fel’ow, I think ! ’ 


The Eve of the Wedding, 273 

‘ I see so much of him,’ scoffed Florence ; and Harry could not 
deny that Robert was only a very rare visitor. 

‘ I wish he was dead ! ’ he said, savagely, and he never uttered a 
truer word. 

However, it ended in a grumbling consent that they might go to 
Mary Blunt’s wedding, and at the appointed time they arrived. 
Robert went to the station in the carriage to receive them, and 
Mary went into the hall to bid them welcome when she heard the 
carriage arrive. 

What made her look twice so curiously in Florence’s face after 
she had kissed her.? There was a nameless change there; a 
change of expression ; a deeper, sadder, more earnest look in the 
dark eyes, and her manner, always charming, was more gentle and 
subdued. 

She kissed Mary tenderly, and said a word or two a little 
tremulously about hoping she would be happy, and then she 
stooped down and lifted little Don in her arms, who was jumping 
up against her skirt, and barking loudly to be recognised, and 
exhibiting all the marks of canine joy to express his delight at 
seeing his old mistress. 

‘ Well, my little one,’ she said, and laid her soft cheek on the 
little eager head. ‘ Thank you for nursing him, Mary,’ she con- 
tinued ; ‘ Robert told me how good you had been.’ 

After this Mary took the sisters to their rooms, and Florence 
presented Mary with a breakfast set of valuable china, and Bessie 
brought her little offering too. Bessie did not feel very comfort- 
able on this first evening of her return to Weirmere Hall. She 
was conscious, as she sat at table, that the polite servants attend- 
ing on her knew how she had locked herself into poor Lady Blunt’s 
room and helped herself to the best she could find. But she 
utterly ignored the fact that she had ever seen one of them before. 
She did not even address Appleby by name, but spoke of him as 
the butler, and Appleby also regarded her with a rigid want of 
pre-knowledge. 

It was only a small dinner-party ; for there were no strangers 
present, and Mrs Humphrey was too weak to appear downstairs, 
and Dr Arthur also preferred to dine alone. Mary dined with their 
guests ; but she asked Florence to excuse her as soon as dinner 
was over, and Aunt Ann also ran away to look after ‘ sister ; ’ so 
Robert and Florence and Bessie were left virtually alone. 

Florence was very quiet when they returned to the drawing-room. 
She went to the window, and stood looking silently at the misty 
lake, and when Robert joined her he saw she was very pale. 

‘ I wish to see the lake again,’ she said, without looking round, 
‘just once again, Robert.’ 

Robert made no answer ; he stood there silent and absorbed, 
and presently Florence called Bessie to her side. 

‘ How happy dear Mary looks, Bessie, doesn’t she.?’ she said ; 
‘ and he also seems so happy. I saw him in his room, you know, — 
yes, Mary has chosen the better part,’ she added, with a kind of 
smile, ‘ and it will not be taken away from her/ 


274 Out of Eden, 

‘ If it were not for Sir Robert’s presence/ said Bessie, looking 
smilingly at Robert, ‘ I would say such a pretty girl could have 
done much better.’ 

‘ Done much better ! ’ repeated Robert, with a harsh laugh ; ‘ of 
course she could, Miss Bessie ; she could have married a man with 
more money, in a better position, with his sight, with everything, in 
fact, that poor Humphrey has not ; but you see the little fool loves 
him, and that makes up for all ! ’ And again Robert laughed. 

His manner was so rough and harsh as he said this that Bessie 
was afraid to answer him, and Florence turned round and lifted her 
eyes to his face with a look of sorrowful reproach. 

‘ Robert ! ’ she said, but just at that moment the drawing-room 
door opened, and Mary came in with her arm through her blind 
lover’s, and they all rose and went forward to meet them. 

‘ I wished him to come down to-night, and be with you all,’ said 
Mary, looking tenderly at Dr Arthur, and Robert went up to him 
and shook him heartily by the hand. 

‘I’m so pleased to see you amongst us all again, dear old fellow/ 
he said, and Florence also slid her little hand into the doctor’s. 

‘ We were talking about you,’ she said. ‘ I was telling Bessie I 
never saw your Mary look so bright or fair.’ 

‘This young lady has always something pretty and something 
kind to say,’ answered Dr Arthur, as he shook her hand. ‘ Mary 
has been telling me about your present ; you are all bent on spoiling 
her, I think.’ 

‘Nothing could spoil Mary/ said Florence; and Mary, looking 
at her as she spoke, noticed again the change of expression that 
she had remarked before. 

After this the evening passed very pleasantly, and before it was 
over Mr Larkins was announced. Mr Larkins came in smiling, 
carrying in his hand a very beautiful antique china punch-bowl as 
his offering to the bride. 

‘You have kept it all so quiet,’ he said, in his sprightly way, 
addressing Mary, ‘ that I never heard we were to have a wedding 
to-morrow until this afternoon ; however, will you accept this little 
token of my respectful admiration ; it was my mother’s, and I’m 
told it’s good.’ 

And Larkins regarded his punch-bowl admiringly. 

Mary thanked him, and Florence, who was a judge of china, was 
delighted with the bowl, and began discussing the merits of the 
different manufactures with Larkins, who knew a little about every- 
thing,^ and knew also how to make the most of that knowledge. 
His lively conversation made the evening pass very quickly, and 
Bessie, to whom he especially devoted himself, seemed quite de- 
lighted with him. 

‘Are you coming to the wedding to-morrow?’ she asked, and 
Larkins smilingly shook his head. 

‘ I have not the happiness to be asked,’ he said ; and as Robert 
and Florence, who were sitting close to them, heard both the 
question and answer, Robert was almost forced to give the neces- 
sary invitation. 


The Wedding, 275 

If you like to come, Larkins,’ he said, ‘ we shall be very glad to 
see you to breakfast or lunch at one o’clock.’ 

Larkins would be delighted to present himself at the appointed 
time, he said,^ and then he rose to take his leave, and said every- 
thing as he did so that was flattering and polite. 

‘ And do you make a long stay, Mrs Blunt ? ’ he asked Florence, 
as he bade her good-night. 

‘ One day,’ answered Florence, with a smile ; ‘ we leave the day 
after the wedding.’ 

Larkins turned to Bessie to express his regret at the brevity of 
her visit, and as he did so Robert said a few words in a low tone to 
Florence. 

‘ Must you really go so soon ? ’ he asked. 

‘ Yes,’ she said ; ‘ but before we go will you row us across the 
lake, Robert ? I would like, just once, to be on the lake again.’ 

‘ We can go to-morrow,’ answered Robert, ‘after they are gone.’ 
And he looked at Mary and Dr Arthur. 

‘ It will be like the old days,’ smiled Florence, 

‘ No, they can never come again,’ said Robert, and he turned and 
followed Larkins out with a gloomy brow. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE WEDDING. 

Spring crept over the chilled earth, and smiled her tender smile 
of welcome and hope to greet Mary on her wedding day. When 
the bride awoke the sun was shining on the distant hills, on the 
green fells, and on the broad still waters of the lake. There was 
no cloud in the sky, blue the great vault above and below the earth, 
and the living things upon it, rejoicing in the sunshine, and telling 
each other that the dark days were past, and that summer’s pre- 
shadow was falling on the ground. 

The golden beams streamed into the bride’s window and fell on 
her sweet face, recalling her from happy dreams to happy thoughts. 
For Mary was happy on her wedding day ; a pensive, shadowed 
happiness, perhaps ; for could she forget the grievous loss that had 
befallen the lover of her choice, or the blight that lay on her 
brother’s life, or the dark secret that ever and anon rose haunt- 
ingly before her ? 

But above all, overpowering all, there filled her heart a great 
deep thankfulness to God. She was going to be Arthur’s wife, his 
helpmate, his friend, his comforter through the long days (she 
prayed) of a long and happy life. 

‘ I will be everything to him,’ she said, looking at the happy 
omen of the dancing sunbeams shining through the window-panes ; 
‘ everything — nothing can part us now ; if care comes it will find 
us together, if joy we shall share it. I will be his right hand ; he 
shall never feel that he is blind.’ 


2/6 Out of Eden. 

She rose and stood before her looking-glass, perhaps with some 
smiling pride. She was a beautiful young woman, fair and stately, 
and it pleased her to think that she was handsome, and that her 
beauty would know no change in Arthur’s eyes. She would always 
be to him what she had seemed yon misty evening when she had 
stood beneath the lamplight, and he had looked his last look with 
his mortal eyes upon her face. 

Then, when she was dressed, she knelt down and prayed with all 
the power and passion of her soul that her life might be pure and 
blameless, and that she might grow dearer and dearer to her 
husband. And she prayed for Robert too ; prayed that he might 
walk straight, and that the shadow of sin and sorrow might never 
darken his path. 

‘ I know not whether I have done right,’ she added ; ‘the burden 
of a poor sinner’s crime is on my soul, and I have kept a secret 
that I may not be right in keeping, but Thou direct me in the time 
to come.’ 


‘ Mary,’ said Florence’s pretty voice at the bedroom door, and 
so Mary rose from her knees and opened it, and outside stood 
Florence holding in her hand a lovely bouquet of violets and snow- 
drops alone, which she had just received from town, and had 
ordered as an offering for the bride. 

‘ Only wild flowers, you see,’ said Florence, smiling ; ‘ I thought 
snowdrops would suit our snowdrop best,’ and Florence kissed her. 

Mary was touched by her thoughtfulness, and kissed Florence 
with tenderer feeling in her heart that she had ever felt to her 
before. 

‘You look very beautiful, Mary,’ presently said Florence, ad- 
miringly regarding her, ‘but oh, my dear, you look more than 
beautiful, you \o^ good 

‘ I don’t know about my goodness,’ said Mary, with a little, rather 
uneasy laugh, ‘ but I can’t help thinking solemnly — a marriage is 
such a solemn thing, I think.’ 

‘A woman is a happy woman to whom it is so,’ answered 
Florence, casting down her dark eyes. ‘We reap as we sow, Mary. 
You deserve all happiness ; ’ and then, hastily, as though she did 
not care to carry on the conversation, Florence left her. 

It had been settled beforehand that Mary had to be married in 
her travelling dress, and that Florence and Bessie were to wear 
their ordinary attire. But for the wedding day Florence put off 
her mourning, and wore a gold-tinted silk, with bunches of real 
violets, and a little bonnet of violets. The dress became her 
wonderfully, but she was a woman who always looked welMressed, 
and had a certain grace that made everything she appeared in 
seem to suit her. 

Mary’s dress was very simple but pretty. It was pale grey 
velveteen, with a jacket and bonnet to match, trimmed with pale 
grey broad feather trimming. She wore no other colour, but the 
cold tint only made her lovely complexion look lovelier. 

‘ Mary wears her lilies and roses in her face,’ said Florence. 


The Wedding, 277 

‘ Ah, how tiresome it is always to be forced to think of what will 
become one ! ^ And she laughed. 

‘You do not seem to find much difficulty, Florence,’ said Robert. 

‘ Is that a compliment on my new gown ? ’ she asked, smiling 
at him. 

‘ You look very well,’ he answered, gravely, and then he offered 
her his arm to lead her down to the carriages that were waiting to 
convey them to church. 

No strangers were present, and the bridegroom. Aunt Ann, and 
Bessie went in one carriage, and the bride, Florence, and Robert 
in the other. The hour of the wedding had been kept a secret, 
and to Mr Newcombe’s great annoyance he was called upon to 
perform the ceremony at nine o’clock in the morning, and not even 
asked to breakfast afterwards. 

There was no one, therefore, in the quaint old country church ; 
no one to stare at and be amused by seeing a very solemn 
ceremony. The blind bridegroom and the fair bride stood side by 
side, and plighted their troth and the sunshine fell upon them like 
a blessing. 

Behind them stood Robert, grave, with his eyes cast down, and 
by his side was the dark-eyed woman whom he had loved so long 
and so well. The vicar had an injured air, and felt that the whole 
affair was shabby, hurried, and unseemly. It was all very fine for 
poor people to be married in this mean way, but for the Blunt’s 
of Weirmere it was certainly not the thing. Mr Newcombe felt, 
indeed, a little mollified by the very handsome fee that the bride- 
groom slid into his hand, but why was he not asked to breakfast to 
say grace, and drink the champagne ? 

Mr Newcombe had been displeased also with Robert for de- 
clining to go hand-in-hand with him in parochial affairs, and with 
Mary’s indifference to the flannel question. * 

‘ These young people,’ he told his wife, ‘ do not take their proper 
position ; the mother’s blood, I fear, betrays itself.’ 

Mr Newcombe’s ancestors were not of noble descent, his father 
having been a most respectable cheesemonger and baconfactor ; 
but he always spoke with contempt of low birth, and had a de- 
cided antipathy to poverty. 

He meant to have opened his spiritual arms, as it were, to 
Robert and Mary, after they came into their fortunes ; but Robert 
and Mary had uncomfortable memories, and could not forget the 
time when the vicar’s spiritual arms were virtually closed to them. 

So Robert did not ask him to breakfast, and the vicar made only 
a feeble attempt at wishing the bride and bridegroom all health 
and happiness, as he shook hands with them, and Robert handed 
them into their carriage. Dr Arthur and Mary returned alone, and 
Robert followed with the two sisters and Aunt Ann. When the bride 
and her husband reached the Hall, they went straight upstairs to 
poor Mrs Humphrey’s bedroom, for in vain had the old lady tried to 
rise for the occasion. She was very feeble, but she stretched out 
her shaking hands and blessed her son and her new daughter, and 
Marv softlv kissed her withered cheek. 


278 Out of Eden, 

Then Aunt Ann came fluttering in, and at once dissolved into 
tears, and Dr Arthur pretended to scold her, and told her she 
must not make her eyes red, but must come downstairs and have 
some champagne, and make herself agreeable to Mr Larkins. 

‘ Oh ! Arthur, what a boy you are ! ’ cried the little old lady, 
going to the looking-glass and giving a gratified glance at the 
‘ fall ’ of the very handsome silk she wore, which was her nephew 
the bridegroom’s present ; she rubbed her eyes, she put her bonnet 
straight, and declared that she did think she would feel the better 
for a glass of champagne, as she had gone through so much ‘ ex- 
citement.’ ‘ And so will sister, too, I am sure,’ she said, and upon 
this hint Mary rang for Appleby. 

Presently they went down to join Robert and Florence and 
Bessie, and a very pleasant family breakfast followed, Florence 
exerting herself to be especially charming, and Robert also, for 
Mary’s sake, throwing off his depression. 

After breakfast they went to the station to see the bride and 
bridegroom off, except Aunt Ann, who remained with her sister. 
As the train appeared, Mary flung her arms round Robert’s neck, 
to kiss him and bid him good-bye, and the first tears the bride had 
shed wet her brother’s cheek. 

* Good-bye, my dear,’ she whispered ; ‘ take care of yourself, and 
God keep you from all harm.’ 

Only simple words of farewell, but both Robert and Mary under- 
stood them to mean much, and in silence, and with quivering lips, 
Robert pressed her hand, and then turned to help Dr Arthur into 
the railway carriage. 

And so the bride and bridegroom went away, and seemed to 
leave a dreary blank behind. Robert was visibly depressed as he 
returned to the carriage with the two sisters. Florence was almost 
silent, and Bessie secretly thought it was the dullest and most 
stupid wedding she had ever heard of. 

It was an immense relief to her when Mr Larkins arrived to 
lunch, and she had some one lively to talk to. Larkins was quite 
agreeable to talk to Bessie, and the two made the room ring with 
their laughter. They had settled to go on the water after lunch, 
and Robert made an excuse and pretended he wanted personally 
to see after the condition of the boat, which had been laid up in 
the boat-house during the winter. 

But he really wanted to be alone for a short while to indulge the 
overpowering heaviness of his spirit. 

‘ What a dreary, dreary world this is,’ he thought, as he stood 
looking at the water, ‘always something to fight with, always 
something we cannot have ! We fret, we toil, we struggle ; per- 
haps, if we had our wish, only to find it unsatisfying like the rest.’ 

He threw away his cigar, and went back to the house, and sat 
down to play the host still with a gloomy brow. But if he wasn’t 
hungry, Bessie and Larkins were, and commenced seriously to 
enjoy the good things spread before them, for, as Bessie smilingly 
remarked to Larkins, ‘ We could eat no breakfast, we were all so 
dull at the idea of parting with the bride.’ 


The Wedding, 279 

She had got over this feeling now, and Larkins helped to sustain 
nature in a very prodigal fashion. Florence was very quiet, and 
after lunch was at last over, she walked down with Robert to the 
lake edge, almost without a word being exchanged between them. 
She had changed her dress to her usual morning garb ; the sun- 
light was dancing on the water ; outwardly she looked the same as 
the black-robed girl Robert had rowed so often on the lake, when 
there was no shadow between them, and when to Robert, at least, 
love and duty had gone hand in hand. 

He thought of this as he looked at her with his gloomy eyes ; he 
thought of it as he pulled with his vigorous stroke through the 
sunlit waters ; as he listened vaguely to the folly Bessie and 
Larkins were talking, and when at length they reached the 
opposite side of the lake, Florence asked if they could go into the 
still leafless woods. 

‘ Oh, Flo, they will be so damp ! ^ said Bessie. 

‘ I want to go through them just once again,’ answered Florence. 
‘Will you go V she asked, turning to Robert. 

‘ Certainly, if you wish it,’ he said ; and so, after securing the 
boat, he and Florence entered the woods by the very path where, 
on yon bright autumn day, which they both remembered so well, 
they had wandered together and dreamed of love. 

‘ It’s very damp,’ said Larkins to Bessie, for these two had 
followed them, and Larkins looked doubtfully at his boots. 

‘ Yes,’ said Bessie ; ‘ I cannot imagine what Flo can find to 
admire here.’ 

‘ I don’t suppose they’d miss us,’ continued Larkins, with a 
glance of his sharp brown eye at Bessie ; ‘ and it’s no good catching 
cold, is it. Miss Bessie? Suppose you and I keep clear of the 
woods and stroll on the road a bit ; it will be more salubrious, I 
think ? ’ 

‘Very well,’ answered Bessie, and so she turned back with 
Larkins, and Robert and Florence walked on together along the 
well-remembered path alone. 

They passed the very spot where she had plucked him a sprig of 
heather, which he wore in his coat all day, and which now lay 
faded in his desk. But Robert made no allusion to the past. He 
walked on by her side stern and grave, biting his under lip, and 
with his head turned away, and Florence glancing at him guessed 
some of the struggles of his heart. 

‘Well, have you gone far enough?’ he asked presently, with 
some abruptness. 

‘ Yes,’ answered Florence. ‘ I think, Robert,’ she added, almost 
timidly, ‘ that you did not wish to come here.’ 

* It could only give me pain,’ he answered, in a low voice, and 
Florence was afraid to say anything more. 

It was not a happy walk, and when they rejoined Bessie and 
Larkins, Bessie, with her accustomed want of tact, added a little 
sting. 

‘ Don’t you remember when we went to have tea, Sir Robert, 
with Mary at the cottage, after just such a walk as this last 


28 o Out of Eden, 

autumn?’ she said, smiling at Robert. ‘That was a lovely day, I 
remember, and you rowed us back ; and, yes, to be sure, Harry 
Blunt was waiting for us on the landing. I recollect it so well.’ 

Neither Robert nor Florence spoke. Robert busied himself with 
the boat, and then he handed Florence into it, and Larkins handed 
Bessie, and Robert began to row. 

It was cold now, a breeze had sprung up and the sky was over- 
cast, and Florence drew her cloak round her and shivered. 

‘It is going to rain after all,’ said Bessie. ‘Was there ever a 
day that it did not rain sometime or other at the lakes ?’ 

‘ It makes us enjoy the sunshine all the more, Miss Bessie,’ 
said Larkins, with his little laugh ; ‘ in fact, I question,’ he con- 
tinued, ‘ if we should enjoy life as much if we had no storms and 
clouds to contend with — figuratively, I mean ! ’ 

‘ There are always plenty about, Larkins,’ said Robert, and he 
glanced at Florence, who was leaning over the boat, looking down 
into the water, and he saw her eyes were full of tears. 

His heart suddenly reproached him ; he had seemed hard and 
cold to her, he thought, though in reality he dared not give way to 
his own feelings. 

‘You are tired and cold,’ he said, gently, to her, when they 
reached the landing below the Hall. ‘ Take my arm, Florence, 
and I will pull you up the hill.’ 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

A B L O W. 

Florence and Bessie left Weirmere on the following day, and 
Robert was left alone, for Aunt Ann was virtually confined to her 
sister’s room, poor Mrs Humphrey growing weaker day by day. 

It was very dreary, wet weather for one thing, and the house 
seemed so dull without Mary. Robert got happy letters from her ; 
they were wandering about the south coast ; Arthur was getting 
strong and well ; they hoped to stay away a month, and so on. 

Robert scarcely liked to recall them, and yet as the days wore on 
little Dr Watson told Robert the ‘ old lady’s symptoms,’ meaning 
Mrs Humphrey, were not satisfactory. Robert asked if there were 
any danger, and if he should send for his sister and her husband, 
and Dr Watson seemed undecided about his answer. 

‘Worn out nature,’ he said; ‘she’ll go off some day like the 
flicker of a burnt-out candle.’ 

Upon this Robert wrote to Mary and Dr Arthur, and told them 
the doctor’s opinion, and also proposed to meet them in town, 
‘ where we can have a few days together, dear Mary,’ wrote Robert, 
‘ for I must admit I feel terribly dull here without you.’ 

Mary’s answer to this was to fix the day w'hen she hoped Robert 
would meet them. 

‘Arthur is uneasy about his mother,’ she told Robert, ‘and is 


A Blow. 281 

anxious to be with her, and so, dear Bob, we will onl y have a day, 
or at most two, to spend in London, but we would like to spend the 
time with you.’ 

Robert was exceedingly glad to leave Weirmere. It had, indeed, 
become inexpressibly dreary to him since Mary’s wedding day. 
He had lost interest, somehow, in the place, and the shadow on 
his own soul darkened his little world to him. 

In the stir of London he would be better, he told himself. And 
no doubt a quiet country life must be either a happy or an unhappy 
one ; we have little time to think in a crowd, to dwell on our felicity 
or brood on our sorrow. Robert had wandered about the misty 
Cumbrian hills hugging his grief. Even his temper was changed, 
and he grew at times impatient and irritable. 

His good fortune had not improved him, people said, for we 
judge by the effect and not the cause. In truth, Robert was miser- 
ably unhappy ; he was striving to do right, and yet he had not 
strength of mind to keep out of the way of temptation. He meant 
to be, and was a good man, ‘ but let him that thinketh he standeth 
take heed lest he fall.’ 

He was very pleased to see Mary again. He had invited Mary 
and her husband to be his guests at the St James’s Hotel, Pic- 
cadilly, for the few days they were able to stay in town, and when 
on the day after his arrival Mary walked into his sitting-room on 
Dr Arthur’s arm, looking so happy and so handsome, Robert felt 
as he kissed her smooth cheek that he had at least someone who 
was very dear to him. 

The bride and bridegroom seemed very happy. There was that 
nameless content and rest in their manner that is rarely seen 
except between married people who are very fond of each other. 
Robert looked at them with a strange, wistful envy, and yet (for 
their sakes) true gladness in his heart. 

It was Mary who proposed to go and see Florence Blunt. 

‘I think I should call on her, should I not, Arthur?’ she said to 
her husband after lunch, and Dr Arthur agreed with her. 

‘ Yes, I am sure you should,’ he said, ‘after all her kindness at 
the wedding, and Robert here must go with us to show us the way.’ 

‘We had better go this afternoon, then,’ said Mary, ‘for our 
time is so uncertain ;’ and accordingly, about four o’clock, Robert, 
Mary, and Dr Arthur walked to Chapel Street to call on Florence. 

As they were going down the narrow street, just when they had 
turned out of Park Lane, they met face to face Miss Ethel Curzon, 
leaning on the arm of rather a cross-looking, gouty, old man. 

Miss Curzon recognised them in a moment, and a vivid flush 
stole through her clear skin, and a brighter sparkle shot from her 
blue eyes, as she stopped and held out her hand to Mary, but 
she looked at Robert. 

‘So you are in town?’ she said. ‘Were you going to call on 
me?’ This is my father, — General Curzon — Sir Robert Blunt.’ 

General Curzon stiffly raised his hat, and indeed, poor man, 
everything he did was stiff, for his joints were all racked and 
cramped with rheumatism, and his feet swollen with gout. 


282 Out of Eden, 

‘ I have dragged my father out because it is such a fine day/ 
continued Miss Curzon, ‘ and I thought a short walk would do him 
good, but how we are to get across the road to the Park without 
being run over’ (and she gave a pretty little shrug), ‘I cannot 
imagine. Will you stay and see the performance ? ’ 

What could Robert or any man do under the circumstances ? 
Just what pretty Miss Curzon expected him to do. He offered 
to escort herself and her gouty parent over the dangers of the 
crossing, and thus Mary and Dr Arthur went on to Florence’s little 
house alone. 

They found her at home, sitting by the open window of her 
fanciful little room, and she jumped up and kissed Mary very 
warmly when she saw who were her visitors. 

‘ I am so pleased to see you,’ she said, ‘ so very pleased. Where 
will you sit ? Dr Arthur, sit here by me.’ 

‘ We have lost Robert on our way,’ said Mary ; ‘ we met a 
pretty girl we saw at Wenman, and Robert has gone across the 
road with her to the Park.’ 

Mary had scarcely made this explanation, however, when Robert 
himself arrived. In vain had Miss Curzon tried to make him 
extend his walk with her. He had escorted her and the General 
safely across the road, and then he had told her he was obliged to 
rejoin his sister. 

‘ She is only in town for a day or two,’ he said, ‘ and it would be 
unkind to neglect her, would it not. Miss Curzon?’ And Robert 
smiled. 

‘ Or Mrs Harry Blunt,’ said Miss Curzon, also smiling, and hold- 
ing out her hand. ‘ I hope you will come and see me soon.’ 

‘ I shall be delighted,’ answered Robert, and then he took off his 
hat and left her, very much annoyed all the same with the pretty 
girl he had just parted with. 

When he entered Florence’s little drawing-room he found her 
putting up some work that she had been busy with out of the way 
to make room for the tea-tray. 

‘Haven’t I got a terrible litter here?’ she said, smilingly, to 
Mary. ‘ But you must excuse it, for you see 1 have so few visitors, 
and I am making a bonnet for Bessie.’ 

‘And where is Bessie?’ asked Mary. 

Florence suddenly blushed a deep, rosy blush. 

‘ She does not get on with — Harry,’ she hesitated, without look- 
ing up, ‘ and — she is not with us now.’ 

Robert turned sharply round and looked at Florence as she spoke. 

‘And how long has this arrangement gone on?’ he said. 

‘ Some little time,’ answered Florence, with an uneasy laugh ; 
‘ they were always quarrelling, but I did not like to tell you, and 
Bessie lives in lodgings near.’ 

Robert said nothing more. He drank his tea, and he talked of 
different things, and when Mary rose he left with her, and they 
walked back together to the hotel. 

‘ Fancy Bessie leaving her sister,’ said Mary. 

* It would not be Bessie’s fault, I am quite sure,’ answered 


A Blow. 283 

Robert; ‘whatever Bessie is, she is devoted to Florence. Harry 
Blunt has turned her out.’ 

Nothing more was said on the subject, and when they reached 
the hotel they found a telegram addressed to Robert, lying on the 
table. 

It was from little Dr Watson, of Oniston, and was as follows : — 

‘ Mrs Humphrey has had an alarming attack ; kindly telegraph to 
her son that he ought to be at home.’ 

Of course, after this, there was nothing more to be thought of 
but for Mary and Dr Arthur to get down to Weirmere as quickly 
as possible. ‘ Bradshaws ’ were got out, luggage was packed, and 
an hour later Mary and her husband started on their home- 
ward journey, and Robert was left to amuse himself as best he 
could. 

His thoughts not unnaturally turned to the fact of Bessie having 
left her sister’s house, and he at once guessed the reason why 
Florence had not told him. He had offered more than once (if 
Harry Blunt did carry out his threat of turning her out of the 
house) to provide for Bessie, and he knew why Florence had not 
let him know. 

He made up his mind to call on her on the following day, and 
also to call on Bessie, and to make some arrangements as to 
Bessie’s future support, for he was quite sure that Harry Blunt 
(who was always wanting money) would not give Florence sufficient 
to enable her to keep her sister. 

And on the following morning he did call at Chapel Street. He 
went about twelve o’clock, because he hoped Harry Blunt would be 
out by that time, and he did not care to see him. Mrs Blunt was 
at home, the young footman told him, and he ushered him upstairs 
and opened the drawing-room door and announced him, evidently 
expecting his mistress was there. 

But when Robert entered the room it was empty. He thought, 
perhaps, that Florence was in the little drawing-room, which was 
divided from the room where he was only by heavy cretonne 
curtains, which were drawn together. Robert went up to the 
partition and called ‘ Florence ; ’ but on receiving no reply he 
pushed aside one of the curtains and entered the inner room. 

It was a very tiny place, and to Robert’s surprise a table near 
the window was littered with papers and manuscripts of every 
description. 

He looked around, but Florence was not there, and he was just 
going again to raise the cretonne curtain for the purpose of re- 
turning to the outer drawing-room, when he heard Harry Blunt’s 
voice and stayed his hand. 

‘ I say, Florence, come here,’ he heard Harry Blunt say quite 
distinctly, ‘ I want a word or two with you.’ And then came the 
sound of shutting the drawing-room door. 

‘ What do you want ? ’ said Florence’s voice. 

‘ You needn’t put on that cursed impertinent air,’ said Harry Blunt. 
‘ I’ll tell you what I want fast enough— I want you to ask that 
Robert Blunt to lend me the thousand pounds I told you of last 


284 Out of Eden. 

night.' I must have it, and you must ask him, so there is the 
long and the short of it.’ 

‘1 will not, Harry.’ 

‘You will not ?’ shouted Harry. ‘You will not, you say ; 
but I say you shall ! Do you suppose I would have that fellow 
coming hanging about here if it wasn’t that I expected to get 
something out of him ? I wouldn’t, I can tell you ; and I must 
have this money — it’s an absolute necessity.’ 

‘To pay gambling debts,’ said Florence. 

‘ Never you mind what’s to pay, but I must have it, and you 
ask Robert Blunt, or Robert Devil, or whatever your old lover’s 
right name is, for it. Do you hear ? You 7Musta.sk him to-day, 
and I want the money to-morrow.’ 

‘ Harry, I will not — nay, hear me out — are you not ashamed 
to want more money from this generous man ? Look what he 
has done for us already ! I am ashamed to look in his face, and 
you would ask me, your wife, to degrade myself by asking money 
from him ? ’ 

^ ‘ I want none of your heroics ; you may keep them for your 
lover ; they may go down with him, but they don’t go down 
with me,’ said Harry brutally. ‘Generous man, indeed, d’ye 
call him ? I don’t know where his generosity is, when he took 
everything from me, — my name, my property — ’ 

‘ He gave you back your mother’s fortune,’ interrupted Flor- 
ence ; ' it was all his, you know very well, and you could not 
expect him not to take his fathers name.’ 

‘ Don’t please, begin that old story again ; I am sick of it. 
Look here now, Florence, it’s no good going on with any more 
nonsense ; ask this fellow for the money, and — ’ 

‘ I will not, Harry ; do not urge me,’ repeated Florence, as 
he paused ; ‘nothing will induce me to do it.’ 

‘ And you dare say this to me ! ’ cried Harry furiously ; ‘you 
dare! when I’ve put up with this fellow coming here; d’ye 
think I’m blind ? I know very well you like him a deal better 
than your husband, and that you would be glad to get rid of me 
if you could ! ’ 

There was silence in the room for a second after this, and 
then Florence spoke. 

‘You are right Harry,’ she said, in a low, firm voice, ‘I do 
like him better than I like you. I always liked him better ; he 
is good, he is noble ; you may kill me if you like, but I will never 
degrade myself to him !’ 

The next moment there was a curse, a blow, and a cry, and 
as Robert pushed aside the curtains and sprang forward, Harry, 
who never looked behind him, walked out of the room slamming 
the door after him, and Florence, who was stunned and trem- 
bling, looked up and saw Robert, pale and terribly agitated, 
standing before her. 


285 


<_> 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

WAITING. 

Florence gave a kind of moan of pain as she recognised Robert, 
and put out her hand. 

‘ Go away, Robert ! ’ she said ; ‘ go away ! it makes me more 
miserable to see you now ! ’ 

Then he went up to her and took her in his arms, and crushed 
her against his breast. 

‘ Will you go with me ? ’ he asked, in a hoarse whisper. ‘ Florence, 
will you go with me now 

‘ No, no,’ she said ; and she drew away from him. ‘ No, Robert, 
you would not be happy if I did ; I must bear my bitter punishment 
to the end.’ 

‘ Not after what I’ve seen and heard to-day,’ answered Robert, 
in great excitement. ‘ Florence, that fellow struck you, and I will 
not leave you here ! ’ 

She made no answer ; she sat down as if too stunned or too 
weary to speak, and she put her hand to her forehead. 

‘ I have struggled hard, Florence ; how hard no one knows,’ 
continued Robert, in a voice trembling with emotion ; ‘ but there is 
a limit to a man’s patience ; the limit has come to mine.’ 

‘ My head aches so, Robert. Oh ! so badly ! ’ now half moaned 
Florence. 

‘ My poor girl, did he strike your brow?’ asked Robert, and he 
drew her hand from her forehead, and below was a great red mark 
already much swollen. 

‘ The brute ! ’ muttered Robert, and he wet his handkerchief in a 
vase containing some water and flowers, which was standing near, 
and laid it on her forehead. 

‘ You must leave his house to-day,’ he said. ‘ Promise me, 
Florence, that you will leave to-day ! ’ 

‘ Yes,’ she answered, after a moment’s silence ; ‘ I can bear it no 
longer. I will leave to-day.’ 

‘ Then that is settled,’ he said ; ‘ leave all the rest to me. I will 
arrange everything ; we had best go abroad, Florence ? ’ 

Again Florence paused, as if thinking before she answered ; then 
she said, ‘ I would like Bessie to come to me.’ 

‘ Bessie ! ’ repeated Robert, as if surprised ; but he added almost 
immediately, ‘Very well, if you wish it, Bessie can go with us. If 
you give me her address I can send her to you now.’ 

Florence told him where Bessie was, and Robert promised to 
send her. 

‘ But before I go, Florence,’ he said, ‘ let us settle everything — 
you promise faithfully to come to-day?’ 

‘ I promise faithfully,’ answered Florence, ‘ to leave this house 
to-day ; I will never willingly see Harry Blunt again, never willingly 
speak to him.’ 

‘ Then I will arrange the rest,’ continued Robert, in a low tone ; 


286 Out of Eden. 

‘ I will write you a letter and leave it with Bessie, so that you will 
be sure to get it. There will be a good many things to settle, but 
we can catch the night train to Dover, and cross to-morrow morn- 
ing. Yes, I will write you a letter about the time, and don’t take 
anything with you that you can help, Florence— leave everything 
behind,’ 

‘ Very well,’ she answered, almost under her breath. 

‘And you won’t disappoint me, my dear, my dearest.?’ he said, 
once more taking her in his arms ; and as he held her to his breast, 
Florence lifted up her head and kissed him. 

‘ I have loved no other,’ she said ; ‘ I will always be true to you.’ 
And as she spoke Robert’s eyes grew dim with tears. 

‘ I will do my best for you,’ he said ; ‘ God help me, I will do my 
best ! ’ And then with one last kiss he left her. 

He had some difficulty in finding Bessie, who was in very 
humble lodgings in a back street over a shop, but when he did 
Bessie was quite ready to aid Florence’s flight. 

‘ He is a brute ! an utter brute ! ’ she said ; ‘no one knows what 
Florence has gone through — she must get divorced from him, and 
then you will marry her, Sir Robert ?’ 

‘ Yes,’ he answered. ‘ I will marry her — we can live abroad — I 
promise to do my best for her.’ 

Bessie grew quite lively after this, and promised to return to her 
lodgings at four o’clock in the afternoon to receive instructions 
from Robert, and take his letter to Florence. Then she went to 
Chapel Street, and Robert went to make arrangements for leaving 
England, and changing the whole course of his future life. 

He went with a knitted brow, and with his head bowed upon his 
breast. He was a man peculiarly sensitive to the opinion of others, 
and he knew that by the step he was about to take he would forfeit 
the respect of all good men and women. What would they knov/ 
of the cowardly blow he had heard struck, and of the long love and 
faithfulness and struggle in his own heart.? They would but judge 
him and judge her by the world’s cold creed. His half-brother’s 
wife ! That was the bitterest sting of all ; this near relationship ; 
and Mary ! 

Robert felt the burning blush of shame stain his cheek, as he 
thought of his pure sister. What miserable pain this would cause 
her, he knew well. But he did not falter. He went to his banker’s 
and he paid his hotel bill, and he wrote to Larkins to tell him he 
was thinking of going abroad for some time, and he gave him 
certain instructions regarding the estates ; and then he wrote to 
Florence telling her about the trains, and also telling her that a 
carriage would be waiting after nine o’clock in Park Lane, giving 
minute directions as to the spot where she and Bessie would 
find him. 

‘ I will wait there until you come, dear Florence,’ he wrote ; 
‘ you may be delayed, but whatever hour you can get away after 
nine o’clock, you will find me waiting.’ 

He took this letter, as he agreed to do, to Bessie’s lodgings, and 
found her waiting for him in a much more depressed state of mind 


Waiting. 287 

than that in which he had left her. She had evidently been crying, 
and was nervous and excited. 

‘ Florence is in a dreadful way,* she said ; ‘ and you did not tell 
me what a frightful blow he had given her ; her face is all marked 
down one side, and she is quite broken down with grief.’ And 
again Bessie began to cry. 

‘ You must do your best to keep her up, Bessie,’ said Robert, 

‘ and give her this letter ; I will wait for you until you come ; and, 
Bessie, here is some money — pay anything you owe, but ask Flor- 
ence to take as little as possible away with her — nothing that ever 
belonged to him.’ 

‘ I am sure she will not,’ said Bessie, and then, still crying, she 
held out her hand to shake Robert’s. 

‘ Thank you for all your kindness, Sir Robert,’ she said, ‘ and 
good-bye.’ 

‘Until to-night,’ answered Robert, and after this he returned to 
his hotel, and sat thinking gloomily enough of Florence and Mary. 

His whole life seemed to pass in long review before him then, 
and he bit his lips and half started when he remembered his 
mother’s blighted name, and Mary’s pain and shame at the thought 
of her dishonour. Was he now going to do the very same thing 
his father had done — drag the woman he loved down ; make her 
name a reproach by his selfish passion 

‘ Her life is not safe,’ he told himself, by way of self-comfort ; 

‘ no, my dear, my dear, I cannot leave you to be brutally struck as 
you were struck to-day — to be degraded, to be trampled on — I 
take you from no happy home, from no good husband, but from a 
vile prison-house and a man lost to every sense of honour.’ 

Thus he mentally argued as the hours wore on, and presently a 
visitor (Lord Moreland) was ushered into his room. 

‘ Ethel Curzon told me you were in town,’ said Lord Moreland, 
shaking his hand, ‘and we are going to have a few people to dinner 
to-Might, and so I looked in to ask you to join us.’ 

Robert pleaded an engagement, and after sitting a little while 
Lord Moreland left him. But even this visit seemed to bring the 
world and the world’s opinion closer to Robert. * Lord Moreland 
was a man of high character, what would he say to-morrow when 
he heard that Robert had eloped with his half-brother’s wife ? 

‘ But it is too late to think of these things,’ said Robert, begin- 
ning to pace the room ; ‘ the die is cast, it is no use now to look 
backward.’ 

He had ordered his dinner at seven, and after that the time 
seemed to pass quickly. As the clocks were striking nine he was 
in Park Lane, and he ordered the driver of the carriage he had 
engaged to stand on the park side of the road, while he paced 
backwards and forwards before the magnificent mansion belonging 
to one of our richest earls. 

Ten o’clock struck ; eleven, twelve, and still there was no appear- 
ance of the two sisters. Then one — another day was born — a chill 
breeze crept through the leafless trees, the hum of the busy city 
still went on ; carriage after carriage rolled by, while above him 


288 Out of Eden. 

was the grandeur and peacefulness of a starry sky, and in Robertas 
heart momentarily increasing anxiety and dismay. 

‘What could have happened?’ he asked himself, as he nervously 
kept his dreary watch. Then two struck, and the driver of the 
carriage came up to him and asked if it were any use waiting 
much longer. Robert slipped two sovereigns into the man’s hand 
and told him to go and get some refreshment and then come back. 
The driver went quite cheerfully away after this, and was absent 
half-an-hour and then returned ; but still Robert, though now quite 
worn out with fatigue, would not leave the spot where he had pro- 
mised to meet Florence. 

As the small hours wore on, a hush and stillness fell around, 
broken only when some late reveller drove past, and when the 
clocks told the solemn tale that tune was never still. 

Thus hour after hour passed away, and then in the east dawned 
a soft, pink light on the dusky sky — dawned and spread, and there 
was a twitter of birds on the house tops and amid the trees, and 
again the hum of distant wheels as the country carts commenced 
their lumbering journeys into the great city, and the toil of the day 
began. 

It was six o’clock when Robert, hopeless, worn out, and racked 
by miserable fears, at last quitted the spot where he had spent so 
many hours of feverish anxiety. He drove back to his hotel, 
certain now that something must have happened, and flung himself 
down dressed as he was, to take an hour’s rest before he dare 
venture out to make any inquiries. 

At eight he was up, watching restlessly for the early post. He 
saw the postman pass, and he ran down to the hall, and there 
received a letter from the waiter. 

It was from Florence, and Robert had scarcely strength to open 
it. It was a long letter, and he staggered back, faint and pale, 
as he read it. 

‘ Dear Robert,’ it began, — ‘ When you receive this I shall 
have disappeared from the world. Do not be afraid ; I do not 
mean that I shall have destroyed my life, but that those with 
whom I have lived will see me no more. And you, too, dear 
Robert, must think of me as we think of the dead, for it is best for 
us both never again to meet on earth. Robert, you asked me to 
go with you to-day, and I promised I would not stay another day in 
Harry’s house. I have kept that promise, and I pray I shall never 
look on his face again ; but I cannot go with you. What would 
you feel if you could not look on Mary’s pure face ? if you blushed 
when the woman’s name was mentioned who could not legally bear 
your name? And, my darling, do not think I do not love you 
because I go away. I love you too much to drag you down, to 
darken your future with dishonour and disgrace. I will bear, as I 
told you, the punishment of my sin alone. How heavy the punish- 
ment has been no one but myself can know ; but I feel I have 
deserved it, for I married Harry without love for the contemptible 
motive of revenging (as I supposed) my poor father’s wrongs on 


Bitter Truths, 289 

Lady Blunt, and for the yet more contemptible motive that Harry 
was titled and rich. I was not sure of my own feelings to you 
then ; nay, I did not love you then as I love you now. It is this 
love (strong and steadfast, Robert) that has taught me what I am; 
what I did in the evil hour I married Harry, and which now gives 
me strength to leave you. 

‘ Do not be afraid for my future. Do you remember the dia- 
mond bracelet you gave me.^ That will bring sufficient money for 
us to live on until I find some way of earning a livelihood, and my 
dear, faithful Bessie will be with me. And now, my dear, my 
dearest, a long and last farewell. Think of me sometimes with 
kindness — as an old friend, at least ; but do not attempt to find 
me. Let me pass out of your life, but believe that I shall be always 
true to you. Florence Blunt.^ 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

BITTER TRUTHS. 

Stunned and stupefied, Robert sat and read and re-read this 
letter. The waiter came into the room to see after the fire, and 
glanced at the pallid-faced man who sat in the window with his 
letter in his hands, and with such a far-away look in his eyes, 
and came to the conclusion that ‘ Sir Robert ’ had had some very 
bad news. 

‘ I’m sure I wish he mayn’t commit suicide,’ he said to the 
sympathising kitchen-maid downstairs ; he’s either lost his money, 
or some of you ladies has played him false.’ 

‘ He’s more likely to commit suicide for loss of his money than 
loss of his love,’ answered the kitchen-maid, with a bitter know- 
ledge of the world. ‘ Loves are easy got, but money isn’t. But 
if I were you I’d take up a “ B. and S.,” and that will pull him 
together.’ 

The waiter acted on this advice, and Robert drank the brandy, 
and then the waiter brought up breakfast and some strong tea and 
the morning papers. The first sudden shock was over, and Robert 
remembered with thankfulness that the diamond bracelet would 
certainly be worth seven or eight hundred pounds, and that Flor- 
ence would not be in any present want of money. 

‘ She is a good woman,’ he thought tenderly. ‘ Oh ! my poor, 
poor love, how much nobler you are than lam! You will not drag 
me down, you say ; but I, who am so much older, showed no such 
unselfishness. But she is better away from that brute at least, and 
Bessie is with her ; and some day I shall find her. Yes, Florence, 
I cannot live without you ; some day you will come back to me.’ 

Robert clung to this hope ; Bessie knew where to find him. 
Bessie was with her sister, and in case of any mischance befalling 
them, Bessie, he was almost sure, would write to him. He con- 
sidered whether he should make any inquiries at present, and he 

r 


290 Out of Eden, ' 

came to the conclusion it would be better not to do so. Florence 
had told him not to seek her, and he dreaded the idea that if she 
were found Harry Blunt might actually force her to return to him. 

He was still debating this question in his own mind when Harry 
Blunt himself was announced, and, to Robert’s scarcely suppressed 
indignation, walked into the room. 

Robert rose and bowed with haughty coldness, and Harry’s red 
face* grew redder at this reception. 

‘ I say,’ he began, putting on his bullying manner at once, 

‘ where’s Florence gone t I suppose you know something about 
it, and she’s disappeared.?’ 

‘ I know nothing about it,’ replied Robert. 

‘ That’s all very fine ; I hear now you were in the house yesterday 
morning, when she and I had a row, and I suppose you counselled 
her to run away? If you did, I won’t stand it, I can tell you, so 
you may as well tell me where she is ? ’ 

‘ I don’t happen to know,’ answered Robert. 

‘Oh! come, that won’t go down ! She had no money to run 
away with, for one thing; you must have given her the money, I 
suppose ?’ 

‘ I gave her no money.’ 

‘Where’s she gone, then?’ asked Harry passionately, striking 
the table violently with his doubled fist. ‘ She pretended she was 
too ill to come down to dinner, and locked herself in her room, 
and when I came home at night my lady had flown.’ 

‘What time did you come in ?’ asked Robert. 

‘ Oh I in the small hours,’ answered Harry, with affected care- 
le.ssness ; ‘ and her maid says a cab, a four-wheeler, came for her 
about half-past nine, just after I went out, and that her mistress 
and that confounded Bessie Chester started together in it, and 
took their luggage with them, and the cab drove away down the 
street.’ 

‘Down the street?’ interrupted Robert; he knew if they had 
driven up they must have passed him. 

‘ Yes, so Horrocks says ; of course she didn’t take the number of 
the cab, like a fool of a woman ! But, confound it ! Florence is 
gone, and no mistake ; she left a note to say so.’ 

‘ What did she say ?’ asked Robert coldly. 

‘ifBosh ! some folly or other ; but we must find her. Don’t you 
really know anything about it ? ’ 

‘ I would not help to find her if I could,’ said Robert sternly. 

‘ What d’ye say ? Haven’t I a right to find her ? Isn’t she my 
wife?’ shouted Harry. 

‘ You have no right to strike her ; no right to degrade her as 
you have done. Nay, hear me out, Harry Blunt,’ continued 
Robert, impressively holding out his hand. ‘ You say that you 
have heard that I was in your house yesterday when you quarrelled 
with Florence and when you struck her 1 I was in your house ; I 
was in the inner drawing-room, and heard what your quarrel was 
about. You asked her — your wife — to try to get money from me 
to pay your gambling debts ; you asked her, knowing I was once 


Bitter Truths, 


291 

her lover — thinking I was a soft fool, I suppose, still ! Do not 
deny it, man ; I heard you taunt her with my love, and yet insist 
that this woman should come and beg to me for you ! ’ 

‘ Oh, hang it ! lam not going to stand this !’ interrupted Harry, 
whose face was now scarlet, seizing his hat. 

‘ I’m not done yet,’ continued Robert sternly. ‘ Had you come 
to me like a man, I would have lent you the money ; but to force 
this girl — this unhappy girl, to degrade herself! Have you no 
manhood left, no honour? And when she refused, you brutally 
struck her ; and I was her lover once, you know ’ (and Robert gave 
a bitter laugh), ‘ and I had heard it all 1 ’ 

‘ And you got her to go away, I suppose 1 ’ cried Harry, choking 
with passion. 

‘ I asked her to go,’ went on Robert, with darkening brow — ‘ I 
asked her to go with me! Yes, you shall hear it all. And I 
thought I had won her promise, but she refused. She would leave 
your house, but not with me. And now, as there is a God above 
us, I know no more than you do where she is ! ’ 

‘ It’s a nice story to tell a fellow, anyhow,’ blurted out Harry 
Blunt. 

‘ It’s the truth,’ said Robert briefly. ‘And now, will you go, for 
your sight is hateful to me ! ’ 

And muttering a curse or two, crestfallen and ashamed, Harry 
went away. 

This encounter seemed to do Robert good ; it braced him up, 
as it were, and gave him courage. For one thing, he knew now 
Florence had kept her word : she had never looked again on 
Harry’s face, and he believed that she would keep it ; for another 
he knew too, if Harry did not, that she had money at her com- 
mand, and that, at all events for some time, she would not want. 

So he made up his mind to have patience and wait. She might 
not be far away, this dark-eyed woman so passionately beloved, 
and as the days went on, Robert took to wandering in the by-ways 
and not the highways of the Great City. She might be here, she 
might be there, he used to think, glancing up at the dusty windows 
of shabby’ houses in shabby streets. 

The story soon reached Weirmere. Harry Blunt’s wife had left 
him, it was said, and Mary heard the news with blanched cheeks 
and a sinking heart. She did not dare to write about it to Robert ; 
she did not dare even to whisper on her husband’s breast her 
constant fear and dread. 

‘Where was she gone?’ people said; ‘she had no money.’ 
And Larkins smiled as he heard their comments, and remembered 
a certain letter which he had received from Sir Robert, containing 
the news that he was thinking of going abroad, and giving Larkins 
instructions in the event of his doing so. Sir Robert had not gone 
abroad; Sir Robert was still living at the St James’s Hotel, and 
occasionally going into society, and Harry Blunt could hear 
nothing of his wife. Robert wondered at the strange reserve in 
Mary’s letters, until Larkins came up to London, and gave Sir 
Robert what he called ‘ a hint.’ 


292 Out of Eden, 

Then Robert emphatically and truthfully denied he knew any- 
thing about Florence’s whereabouts. ‘ She left him because he 
struck her,’ he told Larkins. ‘ He wanted her to borrow money of 
me, and she would not, and so he struck her over the face ; and 
that night Florence left his house with her sister, and no one has 
ever heard of them since.’ 

This was the third time that Robert had felt himself called upon 
to deny any knowledge of Florence’s hiding-place. Once to her 
husband, and once to Miss Curzon, and now again to Larkins 
Miss Curzon had heard somehow of Mrs Harry Blunt’s flight, and 
being a young lady of considerable experience, she had thought it 
not unlikely that Sir Robert knew more about it than he chose to 
admit. 

‘So your friend Mrs Harry Blunt has run away from her 
husband.?’ she said one evening to Robert, at Lady Moreland’s 
house in Eaton Square, without a blush on her fair, pure skin, 
and she looked at Robert straight with her bright, blue eyes as she 
spoke. 

‘ Yes,’ answered Robert grimly. 

‘And who did she run away with, and where did she run to?* 
asked Miss Curzon, still looking at Robert. 

‘ She ran away with her sister. Miss Chester,’ said Robert, ‘ to 
escape a brutal tyrant, and I only wish I could tell you where she 
has found refuge. Unfortunately, none of her friends know ; not 
one word has been heard of, or from her, since she left Chapel 
Street.’ 

‘ He is speaking the truth,’ decided Ethel Curzon mentally, ‘ but 
he is in love with her. I expect he will never marry.’ 

So when Larkins gave his ‘hint,’ Robert remembere'd Miss 
Curzon’s words, and began to understand Mary’s strange reserve 
on the subject. 

‘ Poor little woman,’ said Larkins, after he had heard what Robert 
had to say, ‘ where on earth can she be ?’ 

‘ I wish I could tell you,’ replied Robert, and Larkins also 
believed him as Miss Curzon had done, and when he returned to 
Cumberland he took an early opportunity of riding over to West- 
wood House to tell Mary his news. 

Mary and Dr Arthur were now quite settled in their new home. 
It was a pretty house, bright and fresh, and Mary had ornamented 
and decorated it with her artistic taste, and Larkins told her every 
time he went to Westwood that Dr Arthur was the happiest man 
he knew. 

Poor Mrs Humphrey still continued a great invalid, but she had 
rallied from the attack which had alarmed the little doctor from 
Oniston, and had borne the removal from Weirmere Hall much 
better than they had expected. Mary had chosen a bright sunny 
room for her, and Aunt Ann had a room near, so that the two old 
ladies seemed very happily settled ; and, though she was her 
mother-in-law, Mrs Humphrey thought her son had made a good 
choice. 

It was the end of June now, and on a lovely summer evening^. 


Bitter Truths, 


293 

when all the hills and fells round Weirmere were tinted by the rosy 
sky, Larkins rode up to the gateway of Westwood House, and 
having given his horse in charge of a groom, strolled into the 
garden. 

Let us follow him among Mary’s flowers ; let us go up with him 
to yon sheltered nook, where, on a rustic seat, were sitting the fair 
wife and the blind husband. Mary was reading aloud extracts 
from a scientific book, and making notes as she read, for she was 
Dr Arthur’s amanuensis, and he was engaged in writing, or rather 
dictating, a book on one of his favourite sciences. 

It was a peaceful, happy scene, and Dr Arthur’s face wore a 
softer and gentler expression than it had done in the old days, and 
there was a certain calm serenity also about it which told its own 
tale. As for Mary, she was handsomer than ever, and presently 
she rose and laid her hand on her husband’s shoulder. 

‘ Come, dear old man,’ she said, ‘ we have worked long enough, 
and it is such a lovely evening ; let us go for a walk.’ 

At this moment, however, she saw Larkins, and went smilingly 
forward to welcome him. 

‘I hope I am not in the way among all this learning,’ said 
Larkins, also smiling, and shaking hands first with her and then 
with Dr Arthur ; ‘ but I only got from town last night ; so I 
thought I would come over and tell you all about Sir Robert.’ 

‘And how is he?’ asked Mary, quickly. 

‘ Looking fairly well,’ answered Larkins ; ‘ though a bit anxious, 
I think, about the mysterious disappearance of his old friends, 
Florence and Bessie Chester.’ 

‘And he knows nothing.?’ asked Mary, and her face flushed. 

‘ He assured me nothing,’ said Larkins ; ‘ no one has ever seen 
or heard of them since they left Harry Blunt’s house in Chapel 
Street. Sir Robert told me all he knew, and I thought you would 
like to hear.’ 

‘ Yes, certainly,’ said Mary, anxiously and nervously. 

‘ It seems young Harry was in a mess about money, and he 
ordered his wife to try to get a thousand pounds from Sir Robert,’ 
continued Larkins. ‘ The poor young creature refused, and this 
elegant gentleman struck her across the face, and that night she 
and Miss Bessie left his house, and though he has employed 
detectives, young Harry can hear nothing of her. I heard this 
from his own lips, for I had an interview with him.’ 

‘And Robert knows nothing?’ again repeated Mary. 

‘ He said he only wished he did,’ answered Larkins. ‘ I am 
certain he knows nothing.’ 

After this the conversation drifted on other matters, and by-and- 
by Larkins took his leave. Scarcely was he gone when Mary laid 
her head on Dr Arthur’s breast and very unnecessarily began to 
cry. 

‘ Oh ! Arthur,’ she said, ‘ that man has taken a load off my 
heart.’ 

‘ My dear, what is the matter?’ asked Dr Arthur, justly surprised. 

‘About Robert/ sobbed Mary. ‘I always thought— I may as 


294 Out of Eden, 

well tell you now, though I have kept it a secret — but I always was 
afraid Robert knew where Florence was.’ 

Dr Arthur began to laugh. 

‘ Well, little woman,’ he said, ‘ there’s no good, you know, crying 
about it ; and it was very wrong of you to keep such wicked 
suspicions a secret from your husband.’ 

‘ But I have another secret, too I’ wept Mary. 

‘ Another secret ? Well, what is it, my dear little heart ?* 

Then Mary (still crying) told the sad story which she had heard 
now long ago at Mrs Moony’s cottage, and as she told it Dr Arthur 
grew very grave. 

‘ My dear,’ he said, ‘you had no right to keep such a secret ; 
nor to keep it from Robert. You must write to him, Mary ; you 
must tell him to come down at once ; it is of the utmost importance 
that this woman’s statement should be taken immediately, for from 
what I hear from Watson she may not now live many days.’ 


CHAPTER L. 

‘FOR MURDER, THOUGH IT HAVE NO TONGUE, WILL SPEAK.’ 

A DAY later, Robert received the following letter from Mary : — 

‘ My dearest Robert, — I was glad to hear from Mr Larkins 
to-night that you are well ; but I hope now soon to see you, for I 
have something to tell you, dear Robert, that my Arthur says I 
should have told you long ago. I will not write this secret (it con- 
cerns you and Harry Blunt), but will you come down at once when 
you receive this, for Arthur says it is of the utmost importance that 
you should do so. Telegraph if you can come to-morrow, and 
believe me, with kindest love, always your affectionate sister, 

‘ Mary.’ 

— Mr Larkins told me there is still no news of poor Florence 

Blunt’ 

This letter startled Robert ‘ It concerns you and Harry Blunt.’ 
He read and re-read this paragraph, and his thoughts at once 
naturally turned to Florence. It must be something about Flor- 
ence, and yet Mary’s postscript seemed to contradict this idea. At 
all events, he would go down to Weirmere at once to learn what it 
was. So he telegraphed to Mary, — ‘/ will be at Westwood House 
at 7iine this evening? 

This telegram excited Mary greatly, and even Dr Arthur 
was slightly disturbed. Mary could settle to nothing : she ran 
upstairs and downstairs, and she finally walked over to the Hall, 
to hear if they had received any orders about Robert’s expected 
arrival there. 

Yes, Appleby had also received a telegram. A carriage was to 
be sent to meet a certain train at the station, and dinner was to be 
served at half-past seven o’clock. 


^Eor Murder^ though it have no Tongue, wilt sprak.' 295 

Robert was coming, then ; there was no mistake, thought Mary, 
as she hurried home, and nervously thought of the coming inter- 
view with her brother. 

At dinner she was so excited that gentle Aunt Ann noticed it. 

‘ Why, my dear,’ she said, ‘ what a colour you’ve got, and I de- 
clare your hands are trembling. Ah, she’s fond of her brother, 
Arthur, isn’t she?’ she added, looking at her nephew affection- 
ately; ‘and no wonder; Sir Robert is a very charming young 
man.’ 

‘Now, Aunt Ann, I shall tell him,’ said Mary, with an uneasy 
little laugh ; ‘ dear Bob ! of course I am glad to see him again.’ 
And the next moment she sighed. 

After dinner was over Aunt Ann disappeared, according to 
her usual custom, taking upstairs with her ‘sister’s’ dessert and 
wine. Poor Mrs Humphrey never came downstairs ; once or twice 
she had tried to do so, but it always ended in a fainting fit, and Dr 
Watson had forbidden her to attempt it. So she stayed upstairs in 
her bright sunny bedroom, and remained mostly in bed, watched 
and waited upon most assiduously by kind Aunt Ann. 

When the husband and wife were alone, Mary put her cold, 
trembling, little hand into Dr Arthur’s. 

‘ What will Robert do, dear Arthur, do you think ? ’ she said. 

‘ My darling, I can’t tell you,’ answered Dr Arthur ; ‘ but don’t 
get nervous about it, little woman. It is right that Robert should 
know. It is a strange story ; but Robert may take no steps about 
it, for the sake of Florence.’ 

Again Mary sighed and sat in silence, and continually looked at 
the clock on the mantelpiece. Half-past eight ! and as the half- 
hour chimed, Mary’s listening ears heard the garden-gate swing 
back, and running to the window she saw Robert advancing down 
the gravel walk in front, with little Don at his heels. 

‘ Here is Robert ! ’ she cried, and ran out to meet her brother, 
who took her in his arms and affectionately kissed her as they met. 

‘ Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘ I am very pleased to see you ; how 
well you are looking.’ 

But as Mary glanced up at Robert’s face she saw he was looking 
anything but well. His face was thinner, and there was a worn, 
anxious look about it that Mary did not like to see. 

‘ Come in and see Arthur,’ she said, slipping her hand through 
his arm. 

‘Won’t you tell me this wonderful secret first?’ asked Robert, 
with rather a forced smile. 

‘ See Arthur first,’ said Mary, and accordingly the brother and 
sister went into the house together by the French window, which 
opened on the lawn, and in another moment were in the drawing- 
room, where Dr Arthur stood, with outstretched hand, to welcome 
Robert. 

‘ Well, dear old fellow,’ said Robert, heartily shaking Dr Arthur’s 
hand, ‘ and how are you ? ’ 

‘ Well and happy,’ answered Dr Arthur. ‘ I’ve got the best little 
wife in the world.’ 


296 Out of Eden. 

‘ Tm glad of that,’ said Robert, looking at Mary affectionately ; 
‘ and now, what is this secret ?’ 

‘ Go into the garden with your brother, Mary, and tell him there,’ 
said Dr Arthur ; ‘ you two had better have your gossip about it alone.’ 

‘Won’t you come, dear?’ asked Mary, looking nervously at her 
husband. 

‘No, Mary, I’ve heard the story. I’ll give my advice gratis to 
you both afterwards’ (and Dr Arthur laughed) ; ‘but Robert had 
better hear it first.’ 

‘Yes, Mary, come along,’ said Robert, taking her by the arm. 
‘Now, what is it, my dear?’ he asked, quickly, the moment they 
were outside. 

‘ It’s a sad, sad story, Robert,’ answered Mary, ‘ and it has been 
a burden and a misery to me for months. Arthur says I should 
have told you long ago ; perhaps I should, but I was afraid — ’ 

‘ Well, tell me now, dear,’ urged Robert. 

‘You remember Mrs Moony, of course?’ said Mary, with an 
effort. ‘ You remember her illness, and how she was left alone 
with her dead husband and boy, and all the poor children ? Yes, 
of course you do ; you have too good cause to remember, when 
you caught your fever there, and nearly died, dear Robert. 
And Mary pressed his arm. 

‘ Yes, my dear, I remember all about it,’ said Robert ; ‘ so now 
go on.’ 

‘Well, I always sent this poor woman things, as you know, and 
when you got well, my dear, I was so grateful — I — I tried to do a 
little good — but Mrs Moony never got better ; some internal ill- 
ness, a dreadful one, had set in, and one day Arthur, who attended 
her, told her she never would be well again, when the poor woman 
had urged him to tell her the truth. And after this she always 
seemed so unhappy, she was always crying, and seemed miserable ; 
and one day — oh ! Robert, it was the very day poor Florence 
sent little Don to you — I remember it so well. Well, on this day, 
then, I had taken her some wine, and presently she began to wail 
and moan, and said, though I had been so kind to her, that she 
had done me and mine a deadly wrong.’ 

‘ A deadly wrong ? ’ repeated Robert, and he grew a little pale. 

‘ Yes, my dear, she said this, and then she told her story. Robert, 
I will try to make it short. When Lady Blunt’s baby was born, 
Mrs Moony’s sister was one of the maids at Weirmere Hall.’ 

‘At Weirmere Hall?’ said Robert. ‘Well, go on, Molly.’ 

‘ Mrs Moony’s sister was one of the maids ; and Mrs Moony, 
who was unmarried then, unhappily had a child at the very time 
that poor Lady Blunt had one. When Lady Blunt’s baby was two 
days old, the doctors said a nurse must be got for it, and the maid 
at the Hall, who was called Ellen More, hearing of this, mentioned 
her sister, Margaret Moore, to the head nurse, and told her Mar- 
garet was a healthy young woman, and that her babe was the very 
age of Lady Blunt’s child.’ 

‘ Oh, Mary !’ interrupted Robert, grasping his sister’s arm, ‘what 
are you going to tell me ? ’ 


^For Mtirder^ though it have no Tongue, will speakl 297 

‘ A sad story, Robert ; but to go on with it, Margaret Moore, now 
Mrs Moony, went up to the Hall, saw the doctors and the head 
nurse, and was approved of, and became the nurse of the little babe 
that was then supposed to be the heir. But she fretted about part- 
ing with her own child, whose father was a disreputable butcher in 
Oniston, who would not, or could not, provide for its support, and 
the child was left to the care of an old half-blind woman, who 
looked after it for a trifle. Margaret used to send her sister Ellen 
down to see after the child, and take it little comforts, and one day 
on Ellen’s return she told Margaret she had hit on a plan that 
might make all their fortunes, and no one would be the wiser, until 
the right time came to make money out of their secret.’ 

Robert was now biting his lips, and seemed deeply moved. 

‘They planned this together,’ continued Mary. ‘ Not to make a 
long story, Margaret Moore, the nurse, now Mrs Moony, abstracted 
some of the clothes belonging to Lady Blunt’s little child, and gave 
them to her sister ; Ellen took the clothes, dressed Margaret’s child 
in them, gave it some soothing syrup to make it sleep, and carried 
it up under her cloak at a fixed hour in the evening to the Hall, 
after telling the old woman she was going to take the baby up just 
to let the mother have a peep at it on the sly, and that she would 
bring it back in an hour.’ 

‘ They changed the children ?’ asked Robert, almost breathlessly. 

‘ Yes ; Margaret, the nurse, was carrying the babe — Lady Blunt’s 
babe — up and down the long corridor in her arms, singing it to 
sleep ; the head nurse was sitting in the nursery, which used to be 
my room at the Hall, Robert ; the nursery door was open, the head 
nurse was dozing by the fire, and Margaret singing to the babe ; 
then Ellen appeared at the end of the corridor with Margaret’s own 
child under her cloak ; in a moment they changed the children, 
and poor Lady Blunt’s little babe was carried away to a miserable 
den in a back street in Oniston, and Margaret’s child into the lux- 
urious nursery.’ 

‘And this is Harry Blunt ! ’ said Robert, in a low, emphatic tone ; 
‘but what became of the other child, Mary — our father’s child .?’ 

‘This is the terrible part of the story, Robert; the part that 
made me afraid to tell you — that made me a coward; this poor 
babe, then, the only child that poor Lady Blunt ever had, was 
taken to the old woman who had had charge of Margaret’s babe, 
and she never discovered the difference, for Ellen Moore dressed 
it in the poor clothes she had taken off the other on the road as 
she took it to the Hall, and she returned the good clothes to Mar- 
garet, and the exchange was never suspected. Margaret was 
happy at having her own child in her arms, and dreaming of its 
great future, but she did not quite forget the poor little miserable 
one who had once lain upon her breast. She used to send her 
sister down to see after it, as she had sent her down to see after 
her own baby, and one day Ellen brought her the bad news that 
the old woman had died in a fit, and that a new home must be 
sought for the child.’ 

‘Well?’ asked Robert impatiently. 


2gS Out of Eden, 

‘ Ellen Moore had to seek this home, as Margaret was not allowed 
to leave the Hall for an hour, lest she should bring some infection 
to the precious babe that they all worshipped. She told Margaret 
that she had found one, and then a few days later she told her the 
child was dead. Margaret, alarmed, pressed her to tell her how 
it died, and then Ellen admitted she had “got rid of it.” She had 
got rid of it, Robert, by rolling it up in a bundle with a weight in 
it, and flinging it one dark night into the lake below/ 

‘ Mary ! can this be true ?' 

‘ It was too dreadful, was it not, Robert ? So near that the fond 
mother could almost have heard the splash as the poor baby died. 
Poor, poor Lady Blunt ! it is well she did not live to hear this 
miserable story.’ 

‘And where is this woman now — Ellen Moore.?* 

‘ She has gone from our judgment, Robert ; she died five years 
ago, and on her deathbed she left a written statement of the facts 
I have told you ; she left the statement at the entreaty of Mrs 
Moony and her husband, who were miserably poor, and hoped on 
Lady Blunt’s death to get money from Harry Blunt to keep the 
dark secret.* 

‘And this Mrs Moony is very ill?’ asked Robert sharply. 

‘ Very, very ill ; Arthur says she may die any time now.* 

‘ Then I must see Larkins to-night,* said Robert ; ‘ her deposi- 
tion must be taken at once.* 

‘To-night, Robert?* said Mary. 

‘ How can we say she will live another day ? Yes, I must go at 
once, Mary ; bid Arthur good-bye for me.* 

‘ I will go down to Mrs Moony’s,’ said Mary, after a moment’s 
thought. ‘ I will prepare her for your visit ; Mrs Draper is with 
her always, and I hear she is very ill to-day.’ 

Upon this agreement the brother and sister parted, and as 
Robert strode along by the lake and the evening shadows fell 
around him, he twice muttered to himself, ‘ Thank God, thank God, 
she is not my brother’s wife ! * 


It was an impressive scene that took place two hours later by 
the bedside of the dying woman. The poor cottage was poorly lit, 
but the flickering candle-light showed Robert’s grave, stern face, 
and by his side was a Mr Morley, a magistrate, and Larkins, and 
kneeling by the bedside supporting the trembling woman was Mary, 
while at her other side was Dr Arthur with his finger on her wrist. 

Then, at & sign from Robert, Mary rose and lifted that death- 
like face from the pillow, and the pallid lips told the same sad 
stoiy that Robert had just heard. It was written down by Larkins 
as it fell from the woman’s quivering lips, and then her feeble hands 
sought for something hidden beneath the bolster, and Mary, know- 
ing what she sought, helped her, and a shabby small tin box was 
produced, in which was the written statement of the dead sister, 
Ellen Moore. 

‘We got her to write it down, so that we might show it to the 
lad after her who thought herself his mother was laid in the 


Mrs Holmes, 


299 

grave/ continued the dying woman ; ‘ but no good came o’ it, as 
ye all know. He was not the heir after all, and from the time of 
my lady’s death I was too ill to raise my head, and my man was 
gone, and my boy ; and him they called Mr Harry flung a curse 
at my head the only time I ever spoke to him, when we were in 
bitter want before my man’s death, and he rode past one day, and 
I went out and asked him to help his old nurse, and he cursed me 
and bid he keep out of his way ; and he was 7ny son / ’ 

‘ Will you swear this as you hope for God’s mercy ? ’ asked Mr 
Morley, the magistrate. ‘ Swear it on the Bible 1 ’ 

Then the woman took the Bible in her hands and swore, as she 
hoped the Lord would forgive her sins, that every word she had 
spoken was true. 

‘There’s one beside me now,’ she said, looking with her dim 
eyes at Mary, ‘ who’s taught me that even the worst of us can 
repent and trust in Him who died for us, and she’s comforted me 
. and helped me, and the Lord Almighty bless her and keep her for 
evermore.’ 

There was silence in the little room for a few moments after 
this, and then Larkins spoke. 

‘ I think, gentlemen,’ he said, our presence is no longer needed 
here ; ’ and the three men went out of the cottage, not caring to 
look on death. But Mary and Dr Arthur stayed until the last, and 
about three o’clock in the morning Mrs Moony died* 


CHAPTER LI. 

MRS HOLMES. 

It was a hot summer afternoon, and the scorching sun was baking 
fiercely down on a narrow back street of a very unfashionable 
district of London. 

This back street was opposite a long row of mews, and the close 
atmosphere assailed the nostrils, strongly impregnated with the 
savour of stables. Horses and grooms were ever present there, 
and a disorderly wife and a child or two were generally looking in 
a contemplative lazy way at the operation of rubbing down or 
watering the horses. The houses opposite were small, mostly 
let in tenements or lodging-houses, and in one of these lodging- 
houses on this summer afternoon two young women were sitting 
working. 

This particular lodging-house belonged to a Mrs Dobbs. Mrs 
Dobbs was the widow (and always highly respectable she was fond 
of assuring her lodgers) of a departed job-master, and she had 
chosen this situation, she frequently said, ‘because the smell of 
the horses reminded her of poor Dobbs.’ 

The fragrance that the late Dobbs had carried about with him 
no doubt had tender recollections for his widow ; but it was 
certainly trying to her lodgers. Keep the windows closed all 


300 Out of Eden, 

day, still the taint came in, and in consequence of this peculiarity 
Mrs Dobbs’ lodgings were not popular, and consequently were 
cheap. 

The two young women, her present lodgers, were sitting with 
the windows closed, and the hot sun was shining in through the 
dusky-tinted, originally white blinds. The small room was close, 
and one of the young women, who wore a widow’s cap, was bending 
over a small table in a corner writing ; while the other was em- 
broidering coloured flowers on a piece of art-tinted satin. 

Presently the young woman writing at the table turned round 
and gave a tired sigh, and as she looked up, surely those dark, 
wistful, beautiful eyes were familiar to us ? 

‘ This is done at last, Bessie,’ she said, in a weary tone, ‘ but I 
suppose it will only be sent back like the others.’ 

It was Florence Blunt who spoke, and now Bessie Chester 
answered. 

‘ It is tiresome, and they publish such rubbish,’ she said. ‘But 
I am sure you are clever, Flo ; but how tired you look, dear.’ 
And Bessie got up and laid her hand on her sister’s shoulder. 

‘ I am a little bit tired,’ answered Florence, trying to smile. 

‘ It is such a horrid, close place this,’ went on Bessie ; it’s just 
killing you, Florence !’ 

‘ Let us try to bear it a little while longer, dear,’ answered 
Florence. ‘ It’s safe. No one will look for us here, and it’s a 
refuge to me, Bessie, a refuge after all I’ve gone through ! ’ And 
tears gathered in Florence’s eyes as she leaned her head back 
against her sister. 

‘ Well, you had your own way, Flo. Of course, I don’t pretend 
to have all your fine feelings, but to my taste to have gone with 
Sir Robert, and got divorced from that brute, would have been a 
happier life than you have chosen. Hundreds of women run away 
from their husbands and get divorced, and if anyone had a good 
excuse it would be you. Why should you set up to be better than 
other people t ’ 

‘ I don’t set up to be better than other people, Bessie, for I know 
very well I am not,’ said Florence sorrowfully ; ‘ I am not a good 
woman, but putting the sin aside, I could not have borne to see 
Robert look at me as I have seen men look at the woman they had 
loved ! No, anything is better, poverty, misery, anything better 
than shame ! ’ 

‘ Well, my dear, have your own way ; I promised, and I’ll keep 
my word, never to tell Sir Robert where you are ; I am sorry for 
him, poor fellow ; and it’s a great position, and he promised me 
faithfully he would marry you as soon as he could.’ 

‘Yes, after months of anxiety and waiting ; after seeing his love 
change, perhaps, and his heart grow cold to me. Bessie, it is best 
as it is — I married Harry for the most contemptible motives, and 
I must bear the punishment — I shall never willingly see Robert 
Blunt again.’ 

‘ And yet you care for him .? ’ said Bessie. 

‘Too well to ruin his life,’ answered Florence, in a low tone. 


Mrs Holmes. 301 

and she rose from her seat and went to one of the windows and 
opened it. ‘ The air is stifling,’ she said ; and then, after a few 
moment’s silence, she turned round and spoke in a different tone 
to Bessie. ‘ About that money, Bessie, dear,’ she said, ‘ I think 
we shall be obliged to get some more to-day, the rent is to be paid 
to-morrow, you know, and we have only a few pounds left.’ 

‘ Very well, I can go to the man,’ said Bessie, rising and putting 
away her work ; ‘ he said we could have money on the bracelet 
whenever we liked. You don’t think of selling it outright, Florence, 
do you ? He said he knew a gentleman who would give seven 
hundred pounds for it any day.’ 

‘We need not part with it yet, at any rate,’ replied Florence 
gently. ‘We have had fifty pounds. Will you get another 
fifty to-day, Bessie, and I hope before this is done some of these 
things I have written will be accepted.’ And Florence sighed. 

‘ Shall I go now, then ? ’ asked Bessie briskly. She was glad of 
the little change, perhaps she was weary of this dull, close room, 
but she was quite loyal to her sister. 

‘If you will, dear,’ said Florence; ‘but be sure to put on a 
thick veil, Bessie, and take a cab ; do not go in the omnibus or 
the train.* 

‘ All right,’ said Bessie, and she went to get on her hat, while 
Florence stood there gazing vaguely out of the window at the 
steaming horses, at the rough men and the idle women, with her 
thoughts far away on the green hills by Weirmere, where she had 
spent her happy girlish days. 

She sighed deeply ; she was thinking of her fond, proud father : 
what would he have said if he could have ever dreamed that his 
darling would have lived in a place like this ? would have hidden 
her head there, glad to escape from the misery and degradation of 
her married life? 

‘ Poor father 1 ’ she said, softly and gently. Florence, indeed, 
had always been most tenderly attached to her father, and the 
misery of her life had begun at the time of his untimely death. 
Then she thought of Robert, his long love and faithfulness, and her 
own madness. 

‘ Where are you, my dear, my dear,’ she whispered, below her 
breath, ‘ on whose living face I shall never look again ? ’ 

But as she spoke she drew from the bosom of her black dress a 
small, soft leather case, and when she opened it there was Robert, 
smiling, handsome ; a man with a noble, honest face — and the 
eyes were looking at her with the same kind look she remembered 
and loved so well. 

She kissed the photograph, and hid it again on her breast, and 
then Bessie entered the room ready to go out. 

Bessie was plainly dressed in black, and she told Florence to 
lie down in the little bedroom at the back, and try to get some rest 
while she was away. 

‘ Take care of yourself, my darling,’ she said, ‘ I’ll soon be back,’ 
and Florence promised to take her advice, and Bessie went cheer- 
fully away. 


302 Out of Eden. 

She walked down the narrow street, and then down another 
narrow street, which opened into a third. The sun was hot, the 
air under thfe green trees in the parks or in the pleasant lanes pure 
and beautiful. Here it was close, almost stifling, with a warm 
thick haze on which seemed to float the taint of many impurities. 
Bessie was glad to call the first hansom cab she saw, and found 
some pleasure in the long drive that she had to take before she 
reached her proposed destination. This destination was a large 
jeweller’s shop, in a somewhat obscure district of London. Here 
Bessie had deposited Florence’s diamond bracelet, and the master 
of the establishment had assured her it was worth seven hundred 
pounds, which was really much below its value, on account of the 
remarkable beauty and brilliancy of the stones. 

The jeweller had advanced Bessie fifty pounds on it, and had 
retained the bracelet, after giving Bessie an acknowledgment for it, 
and telling her it would be quite safe in his strong room. It had 
been left in the name of Mrs Holmes, and the correct address 
where Florence and Bessie then lived. 

Bessie accordingly desired her cabman to drive to this jeweller’s 
in such and such a street. The cabman found the street without 
any difficulty, and Bessie put out her head to look for the shop. 
She looked and looked and could not see it. She thought they 
must have driven past it, and she ordered the cabman to drive 
back ; he did drive back, and forward again, and Bessie could see 
nothing of the shop. She grew sick and faint. Had she mistaken 
the street ? No, the name of the street and the name of the master 
of the shop and the number were all printed quite plainly on the 
receipt, which she held in her hand. 

Then she got out of the cab, paid the man, but told him to 
follow her, as she might want him again. She looked at the numbers 
of the shops, and she came at last to the number she held on the 
printed paper in her hand. She rubbed her eyes, she gasped for 
breath, no jeweller’s shop was there ; a neat, fresh ladies’ fancy- 
work shop had appeared in its stead. 

Almost breathless Bessie ran into this shop. 

‘Was there not a jeweller’s shop here?’ she asked of the smart 
young serving-woman behind the counter. 

‘ Yes, madam,’ answered this young woman pleasantly ; ‘ we took 
it with the fixtures from Mr Brombridge, the jeweller.’ 

‘ And where has he gone ? ’ interrupted Bessie, pale and breath- 
less. 

‘ He sailed last week for Australia, madam,’ replied the young 
woman ; ‘he didn’t do very well here, but lately he has got a little 
money somehow, and he sold the shop and house above and the 
furniture at a valuation to my mother. But I’m afraid, madam, 
you are not well ? Will you sit down, the day is so very close ?’ 

Bessie staggered to a seat and sat down and wiped her damp 
brow, while a deadly faintness seemed to overpower her. The 
loss of this bracelet meant starvation to them she knew well ; 
starvation, or a long, bitter struggle with penury and despair. She 
drank the water the kind young shopwoman brought her, and she 


There is Death in the Pot 


303 

murmured her thanks, and then went out into the street and called 
her cab, bidding the man drive her to the street next to where she 
and Florence lived. 

‘ Oh ! that miserable drive in despair ! How could she tell 
Florence ! And Bessie wrung her hands, and heavy tear-drops 
streamed down her pale cheeks. 

She scarcely knew how she got home. She dared not speak 
when she went into the little room, for Mrs Dobbs was there busy 
preparing the tea which Florence had ordered to be ready for her 
sister’s return. Florence noticed how ill Bessie looked, and thought 
she was exhausted by the heat, and she hastily got her some wine 
and made her drink it. 

Then, when the sisters were alone, Bessie fell sobbing on Flor- 
ence’s breast, and told her direful tale. 

‘We — we — will starve !’ sobbed Bessie, and Florence was also 
much overcome. 

‘ What can we do ?’ asked Bessie in despair. 

‘ We must trust in God,’ answered Florence, after a moment’s 
silence. ‘ Surely He will not let us starve?’ 


CHAPTER LI I. 

THERE IS DEATH IN THE POT. 

After Robert, Mr Morley, the magistrate, and Larkins had left 
Mrs Moony’s death-bed, they walked on together a few minutes 
in silence, naturally impressed by the solemn scene they had just 
witnessed. It was Larkins who spoke first. 

‘ Well, Sir Robert, and what steps do you intend to take in this 
matter ? ’ he said. 

Robert did not answer for a moment; then he said, very 
gravely, — 

‘ I shall take time to consider, Mr Larkins.’ 

‘ It is an extraordinary stoiy,’ continued Larkins, professionally ; 
' but the woman was speaking the truth, no doubt, for she is about 
done with earthly things, and has no motive, no possible motive, 
for such an invention. It will relieve the estates of a considerable 
burden. Sir Robert.’ 

‘ In the event of my proclaiming it,’ answered Robert. 

‘ But surely, my dear sir,’ said Larkins excitedly, ‘ you will not 
continue to allow the noble income that you settled, or rather pro- 
mised to allow this youth, when you believed him to be your half- 
brother, now that you have discovered him to be the illegitimate 
bantling of a butcher ! ’ ^ , 

‘ I dislike him more than any man living,’ said Robert, but 1 
wish to be just even to him ; and we must remember that it was 
no fault of his that these women palmed him off upon poor Lady 
Blunt as her son.’ 


304 Out of Eden, 

‘ Well, putting it in that light ; but he is so unworthy of your 
generous consideration. Ah, the taint of blood ! We can account 
now for his coarseness, his innate vulgarity, which made one 
shudder.’ And Larkins shuddered. 

‘ He is a low brute ! ’ said Robert bitterly ; ‘ it’s not for his sake 
I would spare him ; but there are considerations. However, we 
had better discuss the subject some other time.’ And Larkins was 
thus forced to drop it, and went home musing on the follies of 
men. 

Robert also went home, after pressing Mr Morley to return with 
him ; but it was too late, the magistrate told him, and so they 
parted, and Robert was alone. 

He stretched his arms out, he breathed a relieved sigh. This 
dark story — his baby -brother’s cruel death — seemed to lift a heavy 
burden from his soul. She was not his brother’s wife, and this fact 
brought strange consolation to Robert’s heart. 

He went down to Westwood early on the following morning, and 
heard from Mary that Mrs Moony was dead. Mary asked Robert 
almost the self-same question that Larkins had done, what he now 
intended to do in the matter ? And Robert answered he had not 
yet decided. 

‘ I mean,’ said Mary, casting down her eyes, ‘ that though I 
know he has no claim on you, yet you will not leave him unpro- 
vided for V 

‘ That I certainly shall not do,’ said Robert ; ‘ there is no 
question about that ; but what I am debating in my own mind is, 
ought he to be told.? He now stands in the position of the heir of 
Weirmere — and he shall never inherit Weirmere.’ 

‘No, Robert, you must marry,’ said Mary gravely; ‘my dear, 
dear boy, surely you can see someone you can learn to love ? ’ 

Robert suppressed a sigh. 

‘ I am afraid I am not susceptible, Molly,’ he said, with an un- 
easy smile. 

‘What about Miss Curzon?’ continued Mary. 

‘ Miss Curzon is a pretty girl, — a very pretty girl, but — * 

‘Why is there always a “but,” Robert ?’ 

‘ Well, my dear,’ said Robert with a laugh, ‘ have a dozen or two 
nice young women ready for me to choose from the next time I 
come to Westwood ; but don’t begin your collection too early, as I 
shall not be back here till late in the autumn likely, and I am 
going to-day.’ 

‘ Going away to-day ! ’ repeated Mary, in a disappointed tone. 

‘ Yes, the Hall is so dull without you I do not care to stay there,’ 
said Robert. 

But Mary knew that it was not her absence alone that made his 
home seem desolate to him. 

He left Weirmere the same afternoon, and on his arrival in town 
went at once to consult his lawyer, Mr Howard, to whom he dis- 
closed the secret of Harry Blunt’s birth, and he directed Mr 
Howard to draw out another will, in which he bequeathed Weir- 
mere and all the other estates to Mary, in the event of his own 


There is Death in the Pot, 305 

death. But Mr Howard agreed with him as to the injustice of 
leaving Harry Blunt unprovided for, and for the present, therefore, 
Robert made no change as to his allowance. 

‘ I would not like to drive any man to despair,’ he told Mr 
Howard; ‘and this youth has been unfortunate enough already. 
I will see how he turns out. For the present, I do not care to raise 
any question as to the legitimacy of his birth.’ 

He did not perhaps care to have his family affairs discussed in a 
law court ; to see in the public papers the story of the runaway 
wife and the brutal husband. He shrank from the idea of publicity 
where his tenderest feelings were concerned, and so he allowed 
Harry Blunt to have the benefit of his silence. 

He went to his old quarters at the St James’s Hotel, and stayed 
there through the hot days of the fast waning season ; stayed there 
after all fashionable people had left town, and only the workers 
sat panting at their desks. He lingered in a vain hope. Some 
day he might catch a glimpse of Florence or Bessie, he thought, 
and a strong-minded young woman once nearly gave him in charge 
for pursuing her all the way down Oxford Street, because he 
thought her back and her walk reminded him of Bessie. 

‘ How dare you follow a respectable young lady in this fashion V 
asked the supposed Bessie, turning round and facing him with ire 
upon her brow. 

‘ I — I — beg your pardon ! ’ stammered out Robert, taking off his 
hat ; ‘ I mistook you for a friend.’ 

‘ No, you did not,’ answered the strong-minded young woman. 

‘ You followed me for improper purposes. I see it by the confusion 
written on your face, and if you do not immediately desist, I shall 
give you in charge, and there is a policeman.’ 

Robert turned and virtually fled, and was more careful in future 
how he pursued the footsteps of any wandering female. But go 
where he would, he could see nothing of the sisters, and at last, in 
September, he gave it up, and accepted an invitation which he had 
received from Lord Moreland to join them at their place in Scot- 
land, and go deer-stalking on the hills. * 

It was a wild and beautiful spot in the Western Highlands, 
called Glen-nare, which for the last three seasons Lord Moreland 
had rented from a proprietor whose ill-health compelled him to 
live in the south of Europe. The house stood on a wooded 
eminence, and all round it washed the blue waters of the loch, 
except on one side, where it was connected with the mainland. 
The deer forest Lord Moreland rented lay more than three miles 
from the house, amid the wild picturesque craggy passes among 
the mountains. Robert was delighted with the place, and his 
heart grew lighter in the keen, pure air, and he had not been dis- 
pleased on his arrival at Glen-nare to find that pretty Miss Curzon 
was also among the visitors staying at the house. 

A pretty girl looks nowhere so pretty as in the country. Miss 
Curzon had a beautiful complexion, and it looked more beautiful 
still with the Highland breezes blowing over her smooth cheeks. 
Robert really admired her, and he began asking himself at Glen- 

U 


3 o 6 Out of Eden, 

nare if it would not be possible that he could learn to love her. 
He was unhappy and unsettled ; Florence, by her own will, had 
passed out of his life, if not out of his heart, and he knew he would 
be better married, and Miss Curzon was well connected, very pretty, 
and did not seem unwilling to be wooed. 

A little thing often turns the fate of a man’s life, and another day 
might have changed Robert’s. He had sat next Miss Curzon at 
dinner the night before, and never had she seemed so charming to 
him ; in his pocket was a letter he had received by the morning’s 
post from Mary, urging him to marry someone, and Miss Curzon 
in particular. He was out shooting blackcocks on the hills, and 
the ladies were to bring lunch at an appointed place and hour, and 
Miss Curzon had told Robert she was not going to allow him to 
shoot any more after lunch, but to walk and admire the scenery 
with her. 

Robert fell out of the ranks of the sportsmen, contented with his 
bag of blackcocks, and sat down dreamily on a moss-grown bit of 
crag which overlooked the blue waters below, and once more drew 
out Mary’s letter and pondered over her advice. 

It was no doubt well that he should marry, and if he married 
anyone why not marry Miss Curzon ? He looked at his watch ; 
the ladies were to join them at half-past one o’clock, and it was a 
quarter past now, and so Robert decided to walk leisurely down to 
the water’s edge, for the ladies proposed coming in a small yacht 
that belonged to Lord Moreland. 

Presently he saw a yacht come steaming up the loch, and when 
the water grew too shallow for it to approach nearer the land they 
launched two boats, and the whole party of ladies were assisted 
into the boats by the yachtsmen, and one gentleman whom Robert 
could not make out. This gentleman came in the first boat-load, 
as Robert stood on the shore waiting to assist the party to land, 
and Robert unstrapped his field-glass to see who it was, and 
to his great surprise and momentary annoyance he recognised 
Mr Larkins ! 

But another moment’s reflection filled his heart with vague 
apprehension. Larkins was a pushing man, but still too much a 
man of the world to follow him to Lord Moreland’s house without 
some pressing cause. So Robert felt anxious and alarmed as the 
boat’s keel grated on the pebbly shore, and he scarcely looked at 
the fair girl in her white dress who sat smiling at him, and after 
hastily handing the ladies out, his first words were addressed to 
Larkins. 

Larkins looked as smiling and lively as ever. His glass eye 
glittered in the sunlight, and his brown eye had its usual ex- 
pression of satisfied self-importance. He returned Robert’s greeting 
while assisting Lady Moreland from the boat, and then after her 
ladyship and her friends were all safely landed he turned to Robert. 

‘You are surprised to see me. Sir Robert, naturally,’ he said, 
‘ but I would not have taken the liberty of intruding myself among 
Lady Moreland’s circle’ (and he bowed low to her ladyship) ‘unless 
I had been the bearer of important tidings.’ 


There is Death in the Pot, 307 

‘What is the matter?’ asked Robert, and his face blanched. 

Larkins hesitated, and Lady Moreland looked at him with a 
good-natured smile. 

‘ Don’t mind us, Mr Larkins,’ she said ; ‘ have your conversation 
with Sir Robert, and then I hope you will join us at lunch,’ and 
Lady Moreland moved on, and Larkins slipped his arm through 
Robert’s and drew him a little apart. 

‘ I received an important letter last night. Sir Robert,’ he began, 
in a low, confidential tone, ‘ and 1 conceived it to be my duty at 
once to come to you. You must prepare yourself to be startled — 
the young man we knew as Harry Blunt is dead.’ 

‘ Dead ! ’ repeated Robert, and he gave a visible start. 

‘ Unmistakably dead,’ continued Larkins ; ‘here is my informa- 
tion’ (and he drew a letter from his pocket) ; ‘it is from one of the 
English visitors at Monte Carlo. He informs me that a young 
countryman, a Mr Henry Blunt, had been losing heavily at the 
gaming-tables, and on his return to his hotel drank a whole bottle 
of brandy, by way, I suppose, of consoling himself, and he never 
spoke again. They tried rousing him, doctors were sent for, but 
he died ; and in his pocket was this letter addressed to me. It is 
on the usual subject, of course, want of money, for I have read it ; 
but it enabled the gentleman who wrote to me to send information 
of the young man’s death to his friends, and I should advise that 
you should send someone at once to Monte Carlo for the purpose 
of identification, and to take charge of his effects.’ 

Robert did not .speak for a few minutes. He stood there looking 
into the blue distance, while strong and varying emotions swept 
tumultuously through his heart. 

‘ Thank God,’ he said at last, ‘I, at least, did not drive him to 
despair.’ 

‘ It seems shocking, you know, of course, such a sudden death,’ 
continued Larkins, in a lively tone ; ‘ but after all, my dear Sir 
Robert, it is the very best thing that could have happened, under 
the circumstances. This ends all disputes about his birth, and 
relieves the estates of a heavy encumbrance ; and his poor young 
widow ought now to be informed.’ And Larkins’s brown eye gave 
one quick glance at Robert’s face as he said the last few words. 

‘ We must find her,’ answered Robert, in a tone of sharp de- 
cision. ‘We must leave here at once, Larkins ; and will you go to 
Monte Carlo, and I will stay in town? We must move heaven and 
earth to find Florence now ! ’ 

‘ Of course I’ll go anywhere you like, my dear Sir Robert,’ 

smiled Larkins ; ‘ but, if I might suggest, I would like to join the 

ladies, and, shall I confess it, eat some lunch at the present 

moment ! I had breakfast at eight, and I have tasted nothing 

since, and the Highland air sharpens one’s appetite, and the 
countess most graciously invited me to lunch with you all. What a 
charming lady the countess is ! Ah, blood tells ; no doubt blood 
tells.’ And Larkins waved his umbrella contemplatively 

‘ Let us make haste then, if you want anything to eat,’ said 
Robert impatiently, and accordingly he and Larkins joined the 


3 o 8 Out of Eden. 

luncheon party, who were enjoying the good things on a little 
heathery knoll, which commanded a lovely view of the blue loch 
below. 

Miss Curzon looked up and smiled at Robert as he approached 
the group, but he did not sit down by her side. He was so silent 
and absent that presently Lady Moreland approached him and 
expressed a hope that he had heard no ill news. Then he told her 
of the death of Harry Blunt, and asked permission to leave Glen- 
nare at once. 

Lady Moreland was naturally much shocked ; she had known Lady 
Blunt well, and the young man’s death was so sudden, so dreadful. 

‘We are very sorry to lose you,’ she said, ‘but, of course, you 
must go;’ and a quarter of an hour later Robert parted with 
them all. 

‘ I hope we shall meet again soon,’ said Miss Curzon (who did 
not at all approve of this sudden desertion), as he shook hands 
with her. 

‘ 1 hope so,’ answered Robert, with a smile ; and there was 
something in his manner that Miss Curzon deemed so unsatis- 
factory, that she asked Lady Moreland, a few minutes later, who 
was the relation that Sir Robert had lost. 

‘ It is his half-brother, young Harry Blunt,’ replied Lady More- 
land, and in a moment Miss Curzon remembered the stories about 
Florence leaving her husband, and the vague rumours of Robert’s 
love. 

‘ It is all over, then,’ she thought, bitterly. ‘ I have been wasting 
my time.’ 


CHAPTER LIU. 

DARKNESS AND LIGHT. 

Robert and Larkins travelled up to town as fast as they could 
travel, and then Larkins at once proceeded by the most direct 
route on his journey to Monte Carlo. Larkins was rather pleased 
at the idea of this trip abroad at Robert’s expense, and by no 
means depressed at the melancholy cause of it. 

‘What was the good of such a life.?’ he thought calmly, as he 
settled himself comfortably for his journey, reflecting on the brief 
existence that had terminated so miserably ; ‘ he was in everyone’s 
way, and we will all get on much better without him.’ And 
Larkins drew out his flask and critically examined its contents, 
without a regretful thought for the untimely death of one so seem- 
ingly unfit to die. 

But Robert felt very differently. Though Harry Blunt’s death 
opened for him a vista that might end in happiness, he still could 
not rejoice over it. ‘ The shadow cloak’d from head to foot, who 
keeps the keys of all the creeds,’ is too solemn a visitor for a thought- 
ful human soul to wish to reap any benefit from. We cannot help 


Darkness and Light, 309 

thinking of the day when our summons too will come to join ‘ the 
innumerable caravan which moves to that mysterious realm.’ 
Robert had hated Harry Blunt in life with an angry, jealous 
hatred, but he had never wished him dead. The coarser-minded 
Harry had, however, constantly wished that Robert would sum- 
marily quit this existence, so that he might step into the hoped-for 
dead man’s shoes. Yet had Robert died before Harry, Harry 
would have awoke to the bitter knowledge of his dishonoured birth, 
and to him the yet bitterer knowledge that Robert had willed 
Weirmere away from him. 

As it was, Robert paid his memory all outward respect at least, 
and wore mourning for the young man who in truth had been no 
kindred of his, but who (as Robert always tried to remember) had 
been loved by Lady Blunt, and who, in his coarse fashion, had 
really seemed fond of his supposed mother. 

So Robert wore mourning for him, and went about the streets 
with a cloth band on his hat, and with daily increasing anxiety, 
sometimes almost terror, in his mind ; for as weeks wore on all his 
efforts to discover the faintest trace of Florence and Bessie proved 
in vain. 

In due time Larkins had returned, having enjoyed his foreign 
tour and looking all the better for it. He brought home Harry 
Blunt’s watch and effects, which had been taken charge of by the 
proprietor of the Grand Hotel at Monte Carlo, where he died ; and, 
strange to tell, in his pocket-book was a photograph of Florence, 
the woman whom he had ill-treated and driven from her home ! 

But, in spite of every effort, in spite of the large reward for their 
discovery that Robert had privately offered, nothing could be heard 
of the sisters. They had vanished like a drop in the vast ocean, 
and left no mark. Larkins felt sure he could do more than Robert 
had done, but Larkins had to retire baffled like the rest. The 
police suggested suicide, but this Robert would not listen to. 
‘ They had money,’ he said, and then told the story of the diamond 
bracelet, and on this clue strenuous and renewed exertions were 
made, and jewellers’ shops were visited, and pawnbrokers, but no 
such bracelet as Robert described could be seen or heard of. 

Larkins returned to Cumberland to attend his duties there, and 
week after week passed away — October, November — and Mary 
wrote to pray Robert at least to spend Christmas with them, but 
Robert would not promise. Nay, he clung to a sort of hope that 
perhaps at Christmas time Florence would send him some slight 
token of remembrance. After Larkins’s return from abroad Harry 
Blunt’s death had been again and again announced in all the 
London papers, and appeal after appeal had been made in the most 
extensively circulating journals to F. B. and B. C., imploring them 
to let R. B. hear of their welfare. 

In fact, Robert had done everything, but not the remotest link 
had been found. From the day when Robert had received Flor- 
ence’s last letter, she had been as one dead, and sometimes a chill 
cold fear crept into Robert’s heart that she might really be so. 
But, in such case, where was Bessie? It was the idea of Bessie 


310 Otit of Eden, 

that bore Robert up, as he felt almost sure if anything had hap- 
pened to her sister, Bessie would have appealed to her friends. 

Thus, when Christmas-tide drew near, Robert still lingered in 
town. The shops were bright with decorations and presents, and 
grave and sad Robert walked up and down the gas-lit streets, 
always searching for one face in the crowd. At the last he decided 
not to go down to Weirmere, but he sent everyone at Westwood 
a very handsome token of his regard, not forgetting the two old 
ladies, who were especially delighted with the trinkets he had 
selected for them, though it might have been supposed that to an 
old bedridden lady ornaments would have been useless. 

But Mrs Humphrey was not of this opinion, and declared that 
Sir Robert had chosen the very thing she had long set her heart 
on ! 

While Robert was buying these very trinkets, he accidentally en- 
countered in the jeweller’s shop young Lord Daunton, Lady More- 
land’s eldest son, who was buying a present for his mother to take 
down to Wenman at Christmas. Lord Daunton, who was quite a 
young man, who had only lately gone to Cambridge, was in town 
for a few days, and in return for his father and mother’s kindness, 
Robert asked him to dine with him on the following evening. He 
accepted the invitation, and Robert meeting another man he knew 
asked him to come also, though he did not feel particularly in the 
mood to enjoy society. 

It just wanted three days to Christmas Day when these two 
young men dined with Robert at the St James’s Hotel, where he 
had been staying through the last dreary months. Lord Daunton 
was a bright, good-natured youth, and Robert’s other friend, who 
was a cousin of Daunton’s, was young also, and they were just pre- 
paring to have what Daunton called ‘ a right jolly evening,’ when 
one of the waiters approached Robert, and whispered a word or 
two in his ear. 

‘ I beg your pardon. Sir Robert,’ he said, ‘ for disturbing you, but 
there’s a young woman downstairs so very pressing to see you, I 
thought I had better inform you of the circumstance, particularly 
as she said she was sure you would wish it — and she sent this 
note up.’ 

Robert grew so pale and deeply agitated in a moment, that his 
two young guests did not know what to say. With trembling hands 
Robert then tore open the note, and as he did so, he gave a cry 
and sprang up. from the table. 

‘ Excuse me, Daunton,’ he said, and he hastily left the room, and 
ran down the staircase, with the open note in his hand. 

The note had been written in pencil by Bessie Chester in the 
hall of the hotel, upon the waiter refusing to disturb Sir Robert, and 
there was only a few lines. 

‘Do see me,’ Bessie had written; ‘Florence is very ill, I fear 
dying, and in absolute want, Bessie Chester.’ 

White, trembling, and terribly agitated, Robert ran down the 


Darkness and Light, 3 1 1 

staircase, and at the foot stood a shabby-looking young woman in 
black, with a waiter or two sternly eyeing her, lest she should pur- 
loin the umbrellas. 

‘ Bessie ! ’ cried Robert, grasping her hands, and at the sight of 
him poor Bessie fairly broke down and burst into tears. 

‘Perhaps you would like to take the young lady into a private 
room. Sir Robert.?’ said the waiter, who had brought up Bessie’s 
note, and who had followed Robert downstairs, and Robert nodded 
and led the trembling, weeping Bessie across the hall to a small 
room beyond, which the waiter indicated was unoccupied ; and 
Robert having closed the door to shut out curious eyes and curious 
ears, now turned to Bessie and asked, in a voice sharpened with 
anxiety, — 

‘ Bessie, what does your note mean, and where is Florence .? ’ 

‘ It means,’ sobbed Bessie, ‘ that I’ve broken my word to her ; 
but — but I could not see her starve. Sir Robert ; yes, you may 
start, but it’s come to that ; and I could not bear to see her suffer 
any longer, and I’ve told a lie, and come to you.’ 

‘ Starve ! ’ cried Robert ; ‘surely, Bessie, not so bad as that ?’ 

‘Yes, just as bad. Sir Robert,’ said Bessie. ‘Florence is lying 
now in an attic without a fire or anything she ought to have. We 
did pretty well till she took bronchitis in the beginning of Novem- 
ber, and since then — oh, what we’ve gone through ? ’ 

‘But, Bessie, you had money.?’ said Robert, bitterly distressed. 

‘ Florence wrote about the diamond bracelet — ’ 

Then Bessie told Robert of their dreadful loss. They had just 
had fifty pounds on the diamond bracelet, and the wicked, heart- 
less man she had left it with had gone off to Australia with it, and 
Florence and Bessie had been left almost penniless. 

‘ Bessie, Bessie, why did you not let me know .? ’ cried Robert, 
beginning to pace the room in his overpowering agitation. 

‘ Florence wouldn’t let me ; I begged and prayed her to let me, 
but she wouldn’t. We got on pretty well at first ; poor Flo wrote 
short stories for the penny weeklies, and made a little money, but 
in November she took very ill ; and. Sir Robert, I went down on 
my knees to her to let me write to you, but she made me promise 
not. “Wait until I am dead, Bessie," she always said,’ continued 
poor Bessie, with a broken sob. ‘ “ Send for him then,” and so 
she went on from bad to worse ; she could not write her little 
stories, and she got inflammation of one lung, and she has never 
been out of bed for over seven weeks, and — and — we are reduced 
to our last penny. That is the truth. Sir Robert — and ’ (poor Bessie 
was sobbing, so she could not speak) — ‘ and to-night I was in Ox- 
ford Street, trying to get the money for some dolls that I had 
dressed for a shop there, and when I was in the shop I saw you 
pass, and as I could not get the money from the people, and I had 
not a penny, not anything to take back to my poor darling lying 
starving in the cold, I just cried out to myself it was wicked to hold 
out any longer ; wicked to let my darling die of starvation— and — 
and you so near.’ And Bessie stopped, literally choked with sobs. 

Robert rang the bell. 


3 1 2 Out of Eden. 

‘Bring some wine, some champagne,’ he said, when the waiter 
appeared, and in a moment or two the waiter returned with a bottle, 
and was proceeding to open it when poor Bessie would have stopped 
him. 

‘Oh ! let us take that to Florence,’ she half-whispered eagerly to 
Robert ; ‘ any common stuff will do for me, but a little champagne 
would do Flo so much good.’ 

‘Hush, hush !’ said Robert, with a sharp pang of pain, ‘drink 
this, and we will take plenty to her.’ And Bessie then thankfully 
and gratefully drained the sparkling draught. 

‘ Oh ! ’ she said, ‘ it puts a little life and warmth into me — Oh ! 
let me go to Flo now. Sir Robert — and if I might take her a little 

Again Robert rang the bell. 

‘ What would be good for her } ’ he asked of Bessie ; ‘ soup and 
jelly, I suppose, and wine .? ’ 

‘ Yes, anything, anything strengthening ! ’ cried poor Bessie ; 
‘ she has not broken her fast to-day but with a crust of bread and 
a cup of miserable tea.’ 

Robert gave his orders to the waiter ; he was to pack champagne 
and jelly in a hamper, and call a cab. Then Robert ran upstairs 
to get some money, and on his way up remembered the two youths 
who were his guests. 

‘ Daunton,’ he said, hurrying into the sitting-room where they 
were dining, ‘will you go on with your dinner and excuse me ? I 
am forced to leave you ; someone very dear to me is dangerously 
ill— and you must just make yourselves at home, and order, of 
course, what you like.’ 

‘ All right, my dear fellow,’ answered young Daunton, rising ; 
‘nothing very serious, I hope ?’ 

‘ I’m afraid so,’ answered Robert, ‘ but I have not time to stay — 
good-bye,’ and Robert was gone. 

‘ A lady in the case, I presume,’ said young Daunton, looking at 
his cousin with a little laugh, and resettling himself to go on with 
his dinner. ‘ I fear Eth Curzon’s chances are diminishing.’ 

‘ Looks like it,’ replied the other young fellow, also turning his 
attention to the table. 

A moment or two later Robert had rejoined Bessie, and a cab 
having been called, the hamper the waiter had hastily packed was 
put in, and Robert handed in Bessie. But when the cabman heard 
the address that Bessie tremblingly gave, he declared it was too 
far for his horse to go. 

Robert put half a sovereign into his hand. 

‘Try if that will make him go,’ he said, ‘ and I will double it if 
you make haste.’ 

There was no complaint of a tired horse now, and Robert and 
Bessie went speeding through the streets, and then Robert told 
Bessie of Harry Blunt’s death, and of the secret of his birth. 

‘ What ! ’ cried Bessie ; ‘ then— then Flo is free— and you— but— ’ 
she added, a moment later, ‘ we have sunk too low for that.’ 

‘ You mean she is a thousand thousand times higher than I am,’ 
answered Robert, in a low voice of deep emotion. ‘ Would I have 


Darkness and Light, 3 1 3 

borne what she has borne ? I who, in my selfish love, would have 
dragged her down so low 1 ’ 


At last they reached the broken-down, miserable lodging, in a 
poor, miserable suburb of the great city where Robert had sought 
Florence so long. The latter part of the journey was passed almost 
in silence by the two anxious occupants of the cab ; and when the 
driver drew his panting horse up by Bessie’s direction. Robert 
could scarcely believe that the graceful, dark-eyed woman he had 
loved so well could live in such a wretched, poverty-stricken place. 

He paid the man, and told him to wait, and then followed the 
anxious Bessie up the disorderly narrow staircase ; followed her to 
the attic flight, and then stood outside the room, by Bessie’s desire, 
lest his sudden appearance might injure Florence. 

‘ Is that you, Bessie?’ he heard a weak voice ask. ‘ Have you 
got the money, dear ? ’ 

It is the first miserable thought of the very poor — 7noney — which 
the rich fling so carelessly away. 

‘ Yes,’ answered Bessie, ‘ yes, my darling ! ’ and Robert heard her 
kiss her sister ; ‘far more than I expected to get, and I’ve been so 
extravagant, Flo. I’ve got you a bottle of champagne, and here it 
is, and you must have some at once.’ 

‘ Oh, Bessie ! ’ said Flo. 

‘ Come, you must drink it ; better times, I hope, are coming ’ 
(poor Bessie was uncorking her champagne now, with all her 
force). ‘ And how have you been, darling, whilst I’ve been away ?’ 

‘ Very weak, dear,’ and Florence sighed. ‘ It won’t be long, 1 
think, now, till — till — you can tell Robert I am gone ; and then 
your sufferings will be over, dear Bessie; for I am sure he will 
take care of you.’ 

‘ Nonsense ! nonsense ! Now have some champagne.’ 

And the poor invalid was lifted up by the eager, excited Bessie, 
and gratefully drank the cool wine with her parched lips. Then 
she lay back, revived a little by the stimulant, and Bessie took her 
hand. 

‘ My darling, I have something to tell you,’ she said ; ‘ I met a 
friend to-day.’ 

‘ Not Robert Blunt?’ cried Florence, starting up, unassisted, in 
bed. . 

‘ Yes, Robert Blunt,’ said Robert, now entering the room, and 
falling on his knees by the bedside. ‘ I have found you at last, 
Florence, and we shall never part again.’ 

She looked at him for a moment, as if too dazed and bewildered 
to speak, and then her head fell back upon the pillows. 

‘ I prayed God, Robert,’ she said in a low tone, ‘ to let me look 
upon your face once more before I died.’ 

Eight months after this, one bright August evening, in the little 
station nearest Weirmere, several of our old friends, and one very 
new one, were assembled. Mary and Dr Arthur, and the little 
babe that had come as a crowning blessing to their happiness, were 


314 Out of Eden, 

all present, and Mr Larkins, more lively than ever, with a new glass 
eye of a brighter tint than the old one, and even Mr Thirlweli was 
there. They were waiting for the arrival of the train which was 
expected to bring home Robert, his wife, and Bessie Chester from 
a long foreign sojourn. 

Presently the train steamed in and the travellers arrived, — 
Florence wrapped in furs, and looking very handsome, but delicate 
still, and Robert looking very happy. 

Larkins was the first to rush forward. 

‘Welcome home. Sir Robert and Lady Blunt !’ he cried, ‘and 
Miss Chester ; ’ and his brown eye assumed quite a sentimental 
expression as he mentioned Bessie’s name. 

Then Mary clasped her new sister in her arms, and whispered 
that her little child was Florence too ; and Robert, brown and 
handsome, began kissing the little babe, who loudly resented the 
liberty. 

It was a happy home-coming, and as the days pass on, the 
graceful, dark-eyed woman who lives at Weirmere grows gentler, 
nobler, and better. 

* I hold it truth with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 

That men may rise on stepping-stones 
' Of their dead selves to higher things.’ 


THE ENtH 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY’S 


Announcements 

AND 

New Publications. 


The books mentioned in this List can 
be obtained to order by any Book- 
seller if not in stock, or will be sent 
by the Publisher post free on receipt 
<if price. 


LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


140. B :tSttter JSfrtbdgbt - - - By Dora Russell 

A story which, like all Miss Russell’s novels, is conspicuous for 
intricate ingenuity in construction, sensational situation, and a 
vigorous narrative power. 

141. B H)0Ut)le IRnot By George Manville Fenn 

Mr. Fenn, who produces, perhaps, as many books as any other 
novelist yearly, still contrives to treat new subjects with his fresh 
energy and spirit, and is as rich in invention as if he were writing 
his first novel. 

142. B IbtOOCU 3F0C - - - By G. A. Henty 

Mr. Henty remains one of the best writers of the novel of 
adventure and escapade. The school to which he belongs will not 
want for admirers until Defoe is forgotten. 


14 3. mrttb - - - By S. Baring-Gould 

As Mr. R. D. Blackmore wove into one piece the disconnected 
legends of Exmoor, so has Mr. Baring-Gould in his turn given 
continuity and permanence to the countryside stories of Dartmoor. 
“Urith” says the Anti Jacobin, latest London Review, “is a 
powerful and ingenious romance.” 

144. :fl3roof^e’0 Baucibter - - By Adeline Sergeant 

This clever novel has a special interest for the time in the 
direct and open fashion in which it approaches the relations between 
capital and labor in London to-day. Miss Sergeant writes with 
knowledge and conviction upon the most important topic of the 
moment. 

145. B /Iftint of /IRonC^ - By George Manville Fenn 

“ His volumes are always interesting.” — Athencenvi. 


JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. 


LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL D ER 1 ES— Continued 


No. Cts. 

104. The Love op a Ladv, Annie 

Thomas 50 

105. How Came He Dead? J. 

Fitzgei’aid Molloy 50 

106. The Vicomte’s Bride. Esme 

Stuart 50 

107. A Reverend Gentleman. 

J. Maclaren Cobban 50 

108. Notes from the ‘News.’ 

.lames Payn 50 

109. The Keepei’. of the Keys. 

W. Robinson 50 

110. The Scudamores. P. C. 

Philips and C. J. Wills. ... 50 

111. The Confessions op a 

Woman. Mabel Collins. . 50 
11:2. Sowing THE Wind. E. Lynn 


Linton 50" 

114. Margaret Byng. F. C. 

Philips 50 

11.5. For One and the World. 

M. Betham- Ed wards EO 

116. I’rincess Sunshine. Mrs. J. 

11. Riddell 50 

117 . ^LOANE Square Scandal. 

Annie Thomas :... 50 

11.5. The Night op the Sd Ult. 

II. F. Wood 50 

119. Quite Another Story. 

dean In^elow 50 

120. Heart OF Gold. L T. Meade 50 

121. The Word and the Will. 

dames Payn .50 

122. Dump.s. Mrs. I.ouisa Parr. . 50 
12.3 . The Black Box Murder. 

By the man who discovered 

the murderer 50 

124. The Great Mill St. Mys- 
tery. Adeline Sergeant 50 

12.5 . Between Life and Death. 

Frank Barrett 50 

126. Name and Fame. Adeline 

Sergeant and Ewiiiff Lester 50 

127. Dramas OF Life. G. R. Sims, 50 

128. Lover or Friend? Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 50 

129. Famous or Infamous. Ber- 

tha Thomas 50 

130. The House of Halliwell. 

]\Irs. Henry Wood 50 

1.31. Ruppino. Ouida 50 

132. Alas! Rhoda Broughton. . . 50 

133. Basil and Annette. B. L. 

Far.ieon 50 

134. The Demoniac. W. Besant 50 

13.5. Brave Heart and True. 

Florence ISIarrvat 50 

1.36. Lady ^Maude’s Mania. G. 

Manville Fenn .50 

137. Marcia. W. E. Norris.... 50 

138. Wormwood. Marie Corelli. 50 
1.39 . The Honoraele Miss. L. 

T. Meade 50 

140. A BiTTERBiRTfiRiGHT. Dora 

Russell 50 

141. A Double Knot. G. M. Fenn 50 

142. A IIiDDEN Foe. G. A Henty .50 

143. ITrith. S. Bari’^g Gould. . . 50 

144. Brooke's Daughter. By j 

Adeline Sergeant 50 1 


No. cts. 

145. A Mint of Money. George 

Manville Fenn. 50 

146. A Lost Illusion . By Leslie 

Keith ■ 50 

147. Forestalled. By M. Beth- 

am-Ed wards 50 

148. The Ri.sen Dead. By Flor- 

ence Marry at 50 

149. The Roll of Honor. By 

Annie Thomas 50 

150. A Baffling Quest. By 

Richard D<^wiing 50 

151. The Laird o’ Cockpen. By 

Rita ’ 50 

152. A Life for a Love. By L. 

T. Meade 50 

153. Mine Own People. By 

Rudyard Kipling 50 

1.54. Eight Days. By R. E. Forrest 50 

155. The Heart of a Maid. By 

Beatrice Kipling 50 

156. The Heir Presumptive and 

Heir Apparent. By Mrs. 
Oliphant 50 

157. In the Heart of the Storm. 

By Maxwell (b'^y 50 

158. An Old Maid’s Love. By 

Maarten Maartens 50 

159. There Is No Deajh. By 

Florence Man y at 50 

160. The Soul op Countess 

Adrian. By Mrs. Camp- 
bell-Praed 50 

161. For the Defence. By B. 

L. Far.ieon 5<? 

162. Sunny Stories and So.me 

Shady' Ones. By J. Payne 50 

16.3, Eric Biughtey'es. H. Rider 

Haggard .50 

164. My' Fir.st Love and My Last 

Love. IVIrs. J H. Riddell 50 

165. The World, The Fi.esh, and 

The Devil. By 31isslM. E. 


Braddon 50 

166. HeFell Among Thieves. By 

David Christie 3Iurray and 
Henry Herman 50 

167. Ties— liuMAN and Divine. 

By H. L. Farieun 50 


168. The Freaks op L.sdv For- 
tune. By May ( ’rommelin .50 
169 Out OP Eden. Dora Russell. .50 

170. A Fatal Past. Dora Bussell 50 

171. Miss Wentworth’s Idea. By 


W. F. Norris 50 

172. A Golden Dream. George 

Manville Fenn 50 

17.3. In Luck's Wav. J.S. Winter 50 

174. Olga’s Cri.me. F. Barrett.. 50 

175. The Horned Cat. J. Mac- 

Laren Cobban 50 

176. The White Company. A. 

Conan Doyle 50 

177. The Ra II, way ]\Ian and His 

Children. Mrs Olipliant 50 

178. In Two Moods. Stepniakand 

\Vm. W e-stall .50 

179. The ScAPEGDAT. Hall Caine .50 

180. 'I'liE Misc hief of Monica. 

L. B. Walford 50 





nURR/JY HILL HOTELS 


You would play 


upon me , Hamlet. Act III. 
Thm write for Catalogue at once to 


0. C. BRIG6S & GO., 


5 & 7 Appleton Street, Boston, Mass. 


OR agencies: 

New York. Chicago. 

C. H. DITSON & CO., J. 0. TWICMELL, 
867 Broadway, 223 Wabash Ave. 


Park Avenue. 40th and 41st Sts 

NEW YORK. 

HUNTING &> HAMMOND. 


I OCATED one block from Grand Central Sta 

i-# tini 


tion. A Hotel of superior excellence oi[ 
both the American and European plans. I 
occupies the highest grade in New York, and i ■ 
the healthiest of locations. 


FOR TRANSIENT GUESTS, 

Tourists, Travelers, or as a Resf',nce fo 
Families, no Healthier or Pleasanter place ; 
can be found in New York City. 


Patrons of the Murray Hill Hotel hav> 
their Baggage Transferred to and from thi 
Grand Central Station Free of Charge. 


LOVEU, DMnOND 9ISLEJI 


Strictly High Grade 


FOUR STYLES, 1891 MODELS, 


FOR 


LADIES AND CENTS 


Lovell’s BOYS’ and GIRLS’ Safety, 
PRICE, S36. 

BICYCLE CATALOGUE FREE. 


JOHN P. LOVELL ARMS CO 


MANUFACTURERS, 

147 Washington Street, 

BOSTON, .MASS 


Everybody’s Typewriter, ^ For Young and Old, 


Price, $15.00 and $20.00. 

LIVE AGENTS WANTED. SEND FOR FULL PARTICULARS. 


Send 6c. in Stamps for 100 Page Illustrated Sporting Goods Catalogue 

481 92 
















m^> \ 

fSj< " '■ ■ 





■» K 




I 


« k :>' i' 

m : ^ ■ - 


■p 


i 










'■fi 


. ffi '-'* 

• t V» * I • 


* !» . ' .1 




' n 

V'i' 


,» » 


< 


• I » 


kff 








li' 


’ a* 

' ^ :vii; 


.f! 


r 


ti. 


% I fg 


r. 1 


j. * • * 


-j * 


) . < 


» 


'Jb 


^43 


» 


:i 


} \ 


<fki-»f, 




I'M 


' ^ 


I »j 


V } 


I » 


■■ i 


{i- •», 










’W 




TS^.j 




• V 1 -. 


'4 


l> ■ M.' t 


< I 


'1 


tsA 


w 


t 


I . » -. J 


r>‘ 


li^;^ !,/i 




h 


%. 


<J. \ 






l» ^ 




iTirr 


Ik < 






Vi (ill 


JS 




r« • « 




1 i ) 


>M ^ 


i ). 








»• 


M 




rkfl 


t£ f 


^ ♦' 


(» 


V' 




rn 


ij Jy 


*. x 


’ I 




r»l^ 


■ . x ; ■-•wVv/jN, , - 


h 


* fl 


•f 


jL 


<. II 


^vv„ 


‘ h 




« ■ 


'n«’ 

• *'*■ ■ 3 ■ ■• - 'A ^Si 

■ • v; , . i'l, ■Sfi 




■ f 






( ( 


5 U 
• « 


i 


K 


/ «' 














<» . h 


■i«. 




fc'/ 


' -v 


-'.n'i 


( I 




n 




/ 


♦jf’i 


j '■' 1'"' '* 


i' j'‘ 


L<i> 


I ‘ I 










hf 


. • ♦ 


lir 






^ Jt ^ y 














• 





/ 

* 

*• ^ ® "Hi 

K o0"«# ^ r^ '^O 

-i'®’ • -g<^ 



'oK 




• •o* ^0^ ^ ♦•#<•• ^ 9^ ♦•■• ^0 

.>vV/>J» '*is. «^i^'* '$!' /“*’• 

v^ :^gP; a\^ 'J^^; ' 





' • "li 

r ♦ <7 o « 

»7:77» .o'*- %.'•••* 

-0^ ♦iVm.** ‘^a .1-4^ . 



V/' •■: 


. 4 ' 


> 4^? 

, - ♦* «K <), - 




’: i 

: ^iP^<h^ \ 

*••'••* aO’ %. ••<’• 

CV < 0 ^ • « * •^ 





V »! 

. .* 

*• /V '. 

^ a!> ^o • 4 ♦ 



'•fe- c° ♦‘i-;?^’. °o j-4' 


'• . » « A 

4.^ ..•• 

*• *^R‘‘ 

>••••* aO^ ^ ^*****' A® 







'• 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 


, I Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
• ^ Treatment Date: 

♦ O 


JAN 



1997 


MEEEEE 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC. 
, 111 Thomson Park Drive 

w\^ Cranberry Two.. PA 1 6066 



® ^ ^_Jk '" • • • <V '^Zj^ 

♦ ^O jy 0 ^ • -t O^ - • ^ 4^ 0 

♦ -Y o_ VT*^^« -0 ' 


«(!»: 




• aO % *•■’* «♦* 



iP-*. >.'i^ 







• .0' \ », 

♦ ♦ 






AV ^ 

■ .Ix^' A ■ • - .\ »»' .j^ -X*' o*.- 

Bi ’■♦■-o<‘ .^i^-- %/ :^K-. "-“ *‘ *'* 




(P 


\ 

O 

*^o,T*' A < ^ 

^V \^''/ ' vw / %•• 






>v ^ 


^(y ^o • * * A 'vC** Xr 

C® ♦•isrt^v' ^ .<1'*' .•jSSSSk^. ”v^ P ♦V 

& "^ov^ ^0* *'4 




HECKMAN 

BINDERY INC. 





^ NOV 92 


N. MANCHESTER, 
INDIANA 46962 



•;>-(?'' .-2 i :’»»/ :'S 





Ae 


4Ly ^ 




